


Felo De Se

by Liminal Minds (LiminalMinds)



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: ALL the Trigger Warnings yo, AU all the way, Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers, Anthony falls fast, Anthony is feral for Penelope, Based Off The Show, F/M, Freeform, Giving Penelope the happiness she DESERVES, I am to canon what a shredder is to paper, I hate the other Featheringtons, Idiots in Love, It will get sexy just u wait, Maria the Maid is the best and is tired of people's shit, No Beta, Penelope falls slow, RELATIONSHIP second, Slow Burn, The Bridgerton's share one braincell and Eloise lost it in a bet to Penelope, The SLOWEST of slow burns holy shit they're like sloths, Warning: Suicide, building a FRIENDSHIP first, freefrom, historical INACCURACY (i'm trying tho), penelope-centric, slow-burn, the World has not been kind to Penelope, truly for the girls and the gays, warning: eating disorders, warning: self harm, warning: suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29085804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiminalMinds/pseuds/Liminal%20Minds
Summary: Felo de Se. Felony to oneself.Suicide.Penelope has always been fascinated by the idea.When Anthony comes upon the youngest Featherington in a wretched state, he not only saves her life, but she saves his.*“Never have I met a man more gentle than you, Sir.”*Warnings NOW for graphic descriptions of self-harm, blood, suicide, suicidal ideation and eating disorders, from the first chapter out. It certainly lightens up along the way, but god is it heavy to begin with.Catch up with me on my tumblr, @LiminalMinds! Message me there anytime :)I will be adding a link to my Felo de Se playlist ASAP (Youtube link) to the comments of the fic and on tumblr.
Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington
Comments: 261
Kudos: 326





	1. Felo de Se

Felo De Se. 

A felony against the self-  _ suicide. _

Perhaps a fitting end indeed; to die so that she may not be buried in consecrated grounds with her pitiful family, so that her restless soul will be trampled underfoot of traffic. 

How beautifully macabre.

Penelope had thought of death more often than a girl should- let alone a Featherington.

She thought of slitting her mother’s throat at each caustic snipe.

She thought of her grandmother’s lifeless body at the wake-how still, how deaf she was to her son, gambling away what was left of her money in the room next door.

She thought of herself; of disappearing into shadow, into realms unavailable to her. To disappear and be forgotten, like always but with the side effect of her forgetting, too.

She supposed Hell or Limbo would be tolerable in comparison to her life as it was.

Oh, she was well aware that others had it worse- that others struggled for money, whilst she had- well, not her families’ fortune as that dried up upon her Papa’s death- but her money from Lady Whistledown. (Really, a free first edition got the Ton hooked; she could charge as much as she cared after that and people would  _ buy it _ , would  _ rapture it _ ,) was enough to keep her in society if only she could escape her mother.

Oftentimes, when she thought of dying, it was preceded by another comment of her Mama’s that triggered the melancholia she felt- for surely it was that pervading everlasting grief that grew roots in her ribcage and bloomed at each remark was melancholy- and suddenly she would feel nothing but the need to disappear.

The first time she pricked herself with a sewing needle had been an accident; but she watched a bright ruby bead swell on her fingertip with a swift sting and had been fascinated by the way it glowed in the candlelight before running down her finger- she had been entranced by the fluttering it gave her.

The next time was not an accident at all. 

Nor the one after that. 

Soon, she realised that it wasn’t the ruby falling from her body that caused the fluttering, but the pain itself- Indeed, a sharp pull of her hair, or a hit to the thigh, and even the so-called “accidental” burning of her hand on the poker elicited the same feelings. Even obeying her mother’s wishes and forgoing days of food until her stomach felt like swirling ash, then eating so much she threw up, began to elicit the same tempting distraction from her melancholy.

She truly was a wretched woman to like it so much.

Perhaps, indeed, death was a fitting end. To put down a wretched, pathetic thing. To let the secret of Lady Whistledown die, with her monies instead being donated to those who worked harder and deserved it much more than she ever had.

After all, what was left for her in England? In Grosvenor Square? On this plane of existence whatsoever?

Penelope’s heart seized painfully.

_ Colin. _

Such a wasted dream, for certain.

He did not want her, nor care for her; not like she longed.

And Penelope was  _ tired. _ By Gods, she still loved him, would do anything for him, but she was tired of the toll it took on her soul to know that he was at best, blind of her feelings, at worst, remaining purposefully ignorant so that he didn’t have to face her and reject her. 

She could not blame him, even if anger burned like old coals in her chest at the fact that he had run away to Greece, to Europe, without a care for her or the fact that her Papa had  _ died, _ when she had spent weeks at Bridgerton house caring for the whole family when  _ his _ Papa had passed. 

She knew it was impossible for her to be loved, but truly, she did not realise how unimportant she was to him as a friend. 

Penelope would only regret the temporary pain her departure would cause dear, sweet Eloise. A sister more perfect than her own flesh and blood; a part of her soul had been carved out and handed to the fifth Bridgerton the second they had met, and Pen would gladly give it all if she could ensure her dearest friend’s true happiness. 

She could not be sure how long it would take for Eloise to figure out that she was Lady Whistledown after all- perhaps as soon as she realised that Lady Whistledown disappeared at the same time- or perhaps never at all? 

She had thought of telling her before she went- just to allow the truth of Lady Whistledown to remain in the universe a little while longer, before it became another forgotten memory like an old, discarded chemise. 

But if she left a letter, then she could not  _ truly _ disappear like she had planned.

She had her plan in place, and she would stick to it.

Which is why she was standing, in the dead of night, at the port. 

She felt it quite simple, really.

To take the small rowboat she had hired, to row out to sea, get blisteringly drunk and tie her ankle to the anchor before diving in. 

She should not be found; she should disappear completely, without answer. Her mother would perhaps spare the most basic of searches before retreating out of “grief,” until the next season where she would wear it as tackily as she could. Her sisters would find suitors willing to help them out of the “grief,” and would be wedded, and she would be forgotten. Her dear Eloise would cry, and remember her for a short while, but would eventually move forward, and perhaps may be eventually convinced to marry herself.

Colin- Colin would move forward in no time at all, find himself the perfect bride, and have a brood that would fill Grosvenor square with joyous laughter.

If she was lucky, maybe they would tell stories of her one day; of bright,  _ big, _ silly Penelope. 

She was rarely lucky.

Penelope looked out at the sea; it really was beautiful in the dead of night, when even the latest workers had gone to bed and the earliest had yet to stir from their slumber. 

The moon was full, a clear crystalline white, and the stars seemed painfully bright here; ready to guide lost souls home on the water.

Ready to guide  _ her _ out. 

The air was cool, but pleasingly so, and thus Penelope shed her coat, dressed only in a soft white chemise so that the cold and alcohol would dizzier her quicker, so that it would bite away at her fear and reluctance. She allowed the Featherington trappings to fall at her feet, from the ostentatious hair pins that kept her hair painfully tight (which she promptly flung into the water), to the pointy shoes made a half-size too small on one foot and an inch too long on the other, until she was barefoot, hair loose, and so scandalously dressed that at any other time she would be a blubbering mess of mortification. Penelope bent down and grabbed the bottle of whiskey she’d stolen from her Papa’s old study- surprisingly full- and took a big sip, choking down the burning liquid.

_ Courage, Penelope, _ she chided herself, taking another sip before clambering shakily into the rowboat. She could feel the whiskey burn it’s way down to her stomach, lighting a fire that had her queasy even as the boat rocked under her.

“Come on, Penelope!” She cried to herself. “Don’t lose your bottle now!” 

Her heart thrummed in her chest. Was she really about to do this?

She felt already like she was floating. Perhaps it was the whiskey.

Perhaps it was her spirit, getting ready to rid itself of its disappointing shell.

She took another large pull from the bottle, this time savouring the flavour. It didn’t burn so much this time, and Penelope thought that if she were to see another day, she could get used to the rich, smooth taste. 

_ “Miss Featherington?” _

Penelope did not respond, so enraptured was she in her task that she heard nothing at all.

She leant forward shakily, to unmoor the boat. Was she supposed to do that before or after getting into the boat? Did it matter? 

She had to pull herself forward against the post, her short fingers stiffening with the chill and uncooperative in moving where she needed them to be. 

She swore loudly into the air. Those  _ blasted  _ knots! Perhaps she should climb back out and undo the knots then climb back in?

A strange gust of wind caused her to shiver and her stomach to clench unpleasantly. 

Sighing, she leant back to grab her bottle and drink again.

Liquid courage ought to help. 

It did not occur to her that perhaps the booze was responsible for her diminished dexterity in the first instance. 

_ “Penelope?” _

Penelope heard the voice this time, and looked behind her, seeing only the expanse of ocean and other docked boats. She shook herself away.

She stood up on shaky legs, pitching forward and steadying herself as the boat suddenly shook at the drunken movements. 

But from her new angle, she could reach around the knots easier, and there! One loosened! And another! And, soon enough, she was unwinding the rope from it’s post and soon she would be drifting out to sea!

She jumped with relief, only to shriek and grab a hold of the boat as it rocked perilously.

Perhaps no more drink until she was further out. She looked below, to the depths of the water. Why wasn’t she drifting yet? Indeed, the boat had moved a few feet from the port, but nowhere near far enough, even though the water pulled everything out to the ocean in the current.

Something felt missing. What had she yet to do?

_ “Penelope?!” _

Penelope’s head snapped up from her confused musings, surprised to meet the moon-lit face of the eldest Bridgerton.

“A-Anthony?” Penelope stuttered, and her heart seized in a panic. 

No!

“Penelope-” He looked at her with wide eyes, confused. He dropped all formalities- surely because of their families’ closeness rather than any geniality or care.

“What on earth are you doing, Penelope?”

“What are  _ you _ doing, Lord Bridgerton?” Penelope snapped. She was too tipsy to care, and she raised an eyebrow challengingly. She cocked her hip, only to shriek as the boat rocked again, grasping onto it for dear life.

“Pen- for chrissakes- are you drunk?” He asked, taking off his jacket and kneeling down on the port. “Penelope- please,” Anthony reached out his hand, his other arm wrapped around the post to allow him to stretch further. He couldn’t  _ quite  _ reach the youngest Featherington.

“Penelope, please let me help you out of the boat and back into your  _ clothes. _ I won’t tell your mother or anything I promise you, but please, take my hand and allow me to  _ pull you back. _ ”

Penelope’s heart pounded. 

_ You can take his hand or disappear, just like you  _ should, a voice whispered in her ears, sounding remarkably like her mother. 

She glared.

“You can’t make me do anything, Lord Bridgerton. Threats of my mother and no concern to me now, she wants naught to do with me anyway.” Penelope reached for Anthony’s hand, only to shove it away rather than curl her fingers around it. His eyes widened, shining with something she could not place.

If he had gazed like that upon anywhere else, she’d think it was concern that struck his visage. 

But not for her.

Never for her.

Anthony huffed. “Please, Pen, come back to port! Stop being so-”

“So  _ what _ , Anthony! Hmm?” He reached his hand out again, this time managing to catch her wrist.

“Infuriating! You’re underdressed and drunk and much too much of a lady to be doing  _ any  _ of those things, let alone clambering into a boat in such a state! Let me return you home-”

“That  _ house _ is not my home and never will be, Lord Bridgerton, and I’ll thank you to- Leave. Me. Be.” She pulled her wrist away harshly, the boat rocking and suddenly, cry stolen from her throat, she was falling.

_ Down, into biting cold. _

She fought for breath, for control-it wasn’t supposed to happen like  _ this- _ but her shock, the sudden cold, and the amount of alcohol caused her body to fail her. 

Her lungs ached as she fought against breathing. They burned, her clenched-shut eyes begged to be open, her lips crying to part. 

She could not bear it anymore.

She opened her lips and was suddenly choking, grasping at her throat and trying to cough out the water filling her lungs. She could not hear the splash above her, nor see the growing shadow as she felt death creep in at the corners. 

She let her body go, and fell into darkness.

...

And then, light. 

Consciousness returned on the port, with  _ Anthony Brigerton’s _ lips on hers, his hands  _ on her chest  _ pumping erratically, pulling back as she moved to splutter, hacking up ungodly salty water. She pushed his hand away from rubbing at her back as she coughed, mortified for him to see her like this. She shivered, and immediately she was bundled in thick fabric that was much too warm for the loose coat she’d taken with her. 

Her coughing subsided, she looked to Anthony, who was still crouching nearby, gazing at her steadily. Strangely, Penelope could not find judgement in his eyes- perhaps pity and curiosity, but not judgement.

Odd.

And goodness, was her first kiss  _ really  _ Anthony Bridgerton, possibly trying to force air back into her lungs?

Dear Heavens, that was mortifying. Especially as he stood there, breeches soaked and linen shirt loosely clinging to his body. It was drier than the rest of him, and Penelope flushed to think of his bear chest breaking the water after her.

“Can you breathe?” Anthony asked gently, his voice permeating the air. Penelope nodded, feeling suddenly weary and cold to her bones.

“Y-yes.” 

“Come on then.” Anthony stood up, but as Penelope tried to stand, he swooped to pick her up instead, his body surprisingly warm considering that they’d both been in surely Arctic waters.

“Lord Bridgerton-”

“Anthony. Call me Anthony, you surely used my name most often tonight.” He smiled down at her, and she couldn’t help but flush.

“Anthony, then- you don’t have to carry me, I know I am not an easy burden-”

“You are no burden at all, Miss Featherington.” And his earnesty lanced through Penelope’s heart so swiftly she wanted to cry.

“Penelope. If I am to call you Anthony, call me Penelope. You certainly used my name often enough tonight.” She shot back. Perhaps it was the alcohol that had solidified in her bloodstream that caused her to be so bold. Anthony let out a surprise chuckle, and Penelope felt she rather enjoyed the low timbre and soft vibrations of his chest. He reached the carriage, and escorted her inside himself, before handing her the long pelisse she had abandoned on her mission and her shoes.

“I shall wait outside, it would be best for you to change and rid yourself of the  chemise _ , _ for it will make you sick to keep wearing it. Please, take your time and tap the window when you’re done.” He looked at her again with an indescribable gaze, and if Penelope were a more beautiful woman she would think he had looked upon her form, though surely he was just checking her over out of concern. 

He coughed somewhat awkwardly, before stepping out and shutting the door behind him, resting his back against the window. 

Penelope stripped herself as fast and as inconspicuous as she could, her mind still reeling with dizzying thoughts that she could not organise swift enough to decipher. She slipped on her shoes and made sure to flatten the pelisse so that it covered her as fully as possible, before tapping on the window and leaning back as Anthony swung open the carriage door and slipped inside. He settled himself in front of her, and reached beside him to pick up his cane and tap the roof. 

The hack lurched into life, and Penelope’s head swam. 

She swallowed the bile rising in the back of her throat.

_ Yes _ , Penelope thought to herself,  _ she was surely drunk. _ She shivered under her pelisse, and Anthony moved swiftly, sitting next to her, much to the young woman’s surprise. 

“Anthony?” She asked. Her soul felt tired, her body felt tired, and right now Penelope wanted to do nothing more than slide into her bed and cry herself to sleep at her failed attempt. 

“Forgive the impropriety, Pen, but you are freezing. You may slap me once you have recovered, you may sully my name to the ‘Ton, but you need warming up.” He stated, his voice low and clear and soothing, even as he shocked her once more by slinging his arm around her and pulling her close to his body.    
She could feel the heat radiating from him, and Penelope immediately loosened with a sigh. 

“You have nothing to forgive,” she mumbled, her words slightly slurred. “For you are warm and comfortable and indeed saved my life today, for whit, I am bittersweetly grateful.” She twisted slightly, looking up at him. He was cast half in shadow, but she could make out the cut of his jaw and his soft hair. She patted his chest weakly.

“Never have I met a man more gentle than you, Sir.”

She bathed in the silence, allowing her mind to soften at the corners of consciousness, when Anthony’s voice broke through again.

“Penelope, why were you on that boat so undressed? So drunk?” His words were hesitant, soft. 

She was rather too tired and too drunk to hold her tongue.

“Felo de se, Anthony.” 

“Penelope,” He breathed, and she discovered she rather liked his name coming from her lips.

“I wanted to disappear, Sir.” She sighed, mumbling more to herself than to him. “I suppose I wanted to go forgotten, and to shed my damned soul...of my even further damned shell…” She paused for a moment, breathing deeply. 

“You wouldn’t be buried on consecrated ground if you were-were to-you would be in an unmarked plot of land, away from your family, from the people who-”

“Oh, dear Bridgerton, that is true, but I do not care. Mama was surely pleased to be rid of me the second she could, and at least she could spend next season using her supposed grief to get her daughters wed.”

“And what of Eloise? Of Colin? Of all of  _ us?” _ He asked, and she couldn’t help the unladylike snort he elicited.

“Of them, I felt guilty, but I figured at best I would become a fond story, one easily forgotten. My secrets now dead with me, my name disappearing from society until one could not remember my face.” 

  
***

  
SIlence for a few moments more. Anthony’s mind was in turmoil. He went to speak, but a soft sigh alerted him to her unconsciousness. Dread to think of the hangover she would have in the morning.   
What was he to do? He felt like a cad just holding her, even though it was strictly to keep her warm, for he could not help but marvel in the feeling of her soft weight against him, or the way she shifted and curled closer.

He was a rake, for making these observations. 

But  _ Penelope. _ His heart ached for the youngest Featherington. Her pain had to surely be great to be so steadfast in killing herself- what had she said about her mother- that she would be  _ pleased _ to be rid of her? What had happened there? He had seen the way that harpy had treated her daughters, Penelope most of all.

He wanted quite to take the woman to task all of a sudden, his blood boiling under his skin.

But truly, for her to think Eloise and Colin- for all the Bridgertons- to forget her so easily?

He couldn’t fathom it. 

Anthony was relieved, as they pulled up to the house, for the discretion of his staff, from the maids to the hack driver as he instructed them to make a guest room up sharpish, before turning back to pick up Penelope and carry her out gently. He was bundled inside swiftly, out of prying eyes. 

“Alert my mother that I need her in my study in ten minutes. Alert Benedict too, he asked one of the ladies’ maids, before climbing up the stairs, Penelope’s short form truly ensconced in his. He reached the guest bedroom and without pause, the maids helped him slip Penelope into bed. The staff had their own softness for Miss Featherington, he knew, and this was confirmed as one of the maids turned to him.

“My Lord, will the young lady be alright? Did something happen to her?” She asked- her name...Maria. 

“Yes, I think should she get plenty of rest and remain warm she will be just fine. It is not my place to disclose how I came across Miss Featherington, though I will ask that you inform the rest of the staff to be discreet. I don’t want a word of what happened here to escape these walls, okay?” Maria nodded swiftly, her eyes wide and earnest, and he bowed shortly before closing the door behind him, allowing the maids to tend for him. 

He made the short journey to his study, which had been blessedly lit for him, and sat in the desk chair, his hands making his way into his hair and he let out a frustrated sigh.

“Son?” HIs mother and Benedict slid into the room, both rumpled by sleep, their eyes chasing the last remnants of dreams. 

“What’s happened, brother?” Benedict asked, helping his mother into a seat and sitting next to her. Anthony sighed again. He felt like he had been doing a lot of that tonight.

“I was on my way home and quite suddenly felt the desire to ride by the docks. What I on my journey saw was Miss Penelope Featherington, in a small boat in a state of undress trying to unmoor herself.” He paused, and he saw his mother’s hand fly to her mouth in shock.

“Is she okay?” She asked, reaching forward to grasp one of his hands tight. She thought of Penelope as another one of her own; the ninth, unofficial Bridgerton. 

Lord help Portia Featherington, Anthony thought.

“I stopped the carriage to help her back to shore-surely I thought she had been attacked or pranked, but she was quite  _ drunk, _ and insistent on unmooring herself. I tried to get hold but she fell in-”

“Dear Lord.” Benedict murmured, his arm moving to hold his mother’s other hand.

“I pulled her out! I had to attempt to resuscitate her- I am only thankful that I was successful, I didn’t have any bellows with me of course, but thankfully she coughed up the water and life returned to her. She is asleep in one of the guest rooms, I couldn’t allow her to return to-to that  _ house _ after what I had heard.” He hissed, tearing his hand away from Violet’s and stumbling out of his chair, running a hand through his hair and moving towards the window, looking out at the street and the blasted Featherington home across the way.

“Anthony, dear. Why ever for?” His mother asked, and he turned to her.

“Miss Featherington has informed me, albeit drunkenly and half-asleep, that her Mama has all but tossed her on the street. She was going to- to-” He couldn’t vocalise the words. He slumped back into his chair. 

“To what, brother?”

“...Felo de se.” Violet cried out softly, and Benedict’s breath sucked in sharply. Anthony could see the tears spilling over and tracking down his mother’s cheeks. 

“That poor girl…” she whispered, crying gently. Benedict wrapped his arm around his mother, his own face showing his concern and distress.”

“Brother, she simply must stay here-we must take her in-”

“I was going to suggest that myself. If you could, brother, head to the Featherington estate and collect Penelope’s things at a more reasonable hour?”

“Of course. But why would her mother kick her out?” Anthony had no answer. 

A knock at the door. 

“Come in,” Anthony called, and Maria, the maid from earlier, curtseyed low.

“My Lords, My Lady.” Maria said, “Miss Featherington is asleep in bed. The staff have been informed to stay silent…” she drifted off, before asking hesitantly. “Sir, I apologise for my impertinence but I must ask- we all care for Miss Featherington you see, and staffs talk-” 

“Yes?” he cut through her stuttering with a nod and raised eyebrow.

“It is no secret amongst our staff- Miss Featherington’s loss of her home-”

“What do you know of it?”

“The new owner of the Featherington Estate, sir. He has allowed Lady Featherington and the elder daughters to return for the second season, but for the young Miss...Lady Featherington wanted them to wed. The Baron is-he’s-”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, spit it out!” Violet cried, though not unkindly.

“He’s horrid to the staff, My Lady. Horrid to Miss Featherington, the maids from across the way have heard her crying at all hours...and today Lady Featherington said that she could marry the Baron or leave.” 

“My goodness.” Benedict said, swearing under his breath.

“Thank you for informing us. Please, inform the Featherington staff to make quick work of collecting Penelope’s belongings.” Anthony straightened up in his chair. “We shall be heading to the estate in the morning to collect her things and Miss Featherington will be staying with us for the time being. She can have Eloise’s old room, please prepare it for a more permanent guest. We shall sponsor her second season.” He waved her away and she curtseyed on her way out.

No doubt both household’s staff would be busy for the rest of the now early morning.

“I have half a mind to go over there myself!” Violet hissed, crossing her arms across her body.

“You can do so later, if you must. But I believe Miss Featherington would not be best pleased about that. Please, head back to bed whilst there are still some hours left. Benedict and I will head over to the estate at Eleven?” Anthony said, cocking his eyebrow at Benedict who nodded, his shoulders tense.

Perhaps it wasn’t mother’s or his ire the Featherington’s should be worried about, Anthony mused. For surely, andybody that caused such a solemn, fiery gaze in Benedict’s countenance truly committed a grave act. 

“Both of you, to bed. Whilst you still can.” Anthony insisted, strong-arming the pair out of the room, before shutting the door behind him. He moved back to the window.

The sky was still dark, though lightened by the sun that had not yet made an appearance. It wouldn’t be long till the first ribbons of day danced across the sky. 

Truly, what was he to do with Penelope Featherington?

He felt the urge to hold her again, like in the carriage. His heart lurched uncomfortably, and his skin suddenly felt hot. What strange effect was she having on him? He thought of the wretchedly beautiful vision she had made, laid before him on the docks as he tried to work air into her lungs again. The nerves that raced through his body as he  _ begged _ for the universe to return her soul to her. The sweet relief he felt when she indeed came back, and the absolutely rakish thoughts that ran through his mind as he thought of her chemise clinging to her skin.

Goodness, he was truly a monster for taking some excitement in her figure at such an awful moment.

And secrets? What was she hiding in that pretty head of hers? He wanted to unlock each and every secret from her, to extract them one by one.

_ What was Penelope Featherington  _ doing  _ to him? _ He questioned, and the young Viscount rubbed his face tiredly, blowing out the candles and slumping onto the chaise in the corner of his study. The exhaustion crashed over him like a wave, and he curled into the comforting plush velvet.

_ Just five minutes, _ Anthony thought, closing his eyes. 

He drifted off, his thoughts still on the young, troubled woman sleeping in his house.

***


	2. A Butterflies' Wings (and the world turned upside down overnight)

Sometimes, the smallest of actions are what changes the course of history. 

A butterfly’s wings may not shape the rest of the universe, but it will change the butterfly’s life completely.

The same could be said for Penelope Featherington, for when she awoke the next morning, sun having risen as it was wont to do, her head pounding and eyes bleary as she scrambled to vomit in a chamber-pot, two households had their entire lives permanently altered, the course of their lives changed. 

The world as a whole may not have changed, but the threads of fate that bound these households together had, weaving a new tapestry of the future; one that they could not undo, or pick apart.

Acid roiled in Penelope’s stomach as she threw up, and she paid no heed to the maid that walked in to rouse her until the curtains had been drawn and she cried out at the sudden light. 

“For your...ailment, Miss Featherington.” She curtseyed, placing a tray on the side table, a crystal glass full of what Penelope could tell by the rancid smell-garlic and raw eggs.

She promptly threw up again.

“Ailment?” She questioned. She indeed felt sick, but how was the maid to know that? It was then that Penelope noticed how _unfamiliar_ her room seemed. It was plain, decorated in soft blues that pricked at her eyes much less than the garish colours of her room...Bridgerton blue, in fact.

Oh, Heavens.

“Your hangover, Miss.” The maid said matter-of-factly, as if much experienced with the side effects of drinking too much. Indeed, the pains her Papa used to have in the morning made much more sense now she’d experienced the consequences of overindulgence herself. 

Pen finally managed to stand up, grasping the glass indelicately and gulping the mixture down, gagging as what could only be described as _slime_ slid down her throat. It took all her self control to not upchuck again.

“Thank you.” Penelope choked out with as much of a smile as she could muster, and the maid curtseyed. 

“I’ll remove your pot and the glass, Miss, and get them cleaned. Lord Bridgerton has asked that we fetch a tub for you to rest in once you’d awoken. He said that he’d be back within the hour.”

“Where has he gone?” Penelope asked, quite bewildered. 

“He has gone to Featherington House, Miss. With Mr Benedict. To fetch your things.”

 _“What?”_ Penelope cried, dashing to the window, ignoring the knock at the door and the procession of servants behind her preparing a bath. Indeed, she swiftly spotted Anthony and Benedict Bridgerton heading across the street towards her own front door, backs stiffened and determined in stride.

 _Bugger,_ Penelope thought to herself. She was thoroughly confused; but surely this would not end well.

Would Anthony tell her mother what had happened last night? What was he to say? 

Penelope felt dizzy, sick, and not just from the alcohol last night. She couldn’t stop thinking, even as the maid guided her towards the linen-lined bathtub.

“Miss, is this warm enough?” She asked, and Penelope forced herself to focus on what was in front of her. She dipped her hand in. 

“Plenty, thank you..?”

“Maria, My Lady.” Maria curtseyed, and helped Pen out of her pelisse-goodness, she fell asleep in that? And into a chemise. She guided Penelope into the tub, and immediately she felt her bones begin to melt into the warm water.

“Oh!” Penelope gasped. She had never felt anything so _sublime._ Hot baths were an expensive and time consuming procession. Her mother had never allowed her to have a proper hot bath before, instead keeping them to herself. 

A soft, sumptuous and lightly floral scent tickled her nose, curling it’s way through her brain and kneading out the headache pounding around in her skull.

If this is what baths felt like, she never wanted to get out.

“I added some perfumed oils for you Miss, they’re to soothe and scent your body. I hope that’s acceptable.”

“It’s wonderful!” Penelope cried out in bliss. “What...what does one do in baths?” She asked, hesitantly. She knew her mother would be in her room for _hours_ when she bathed. She couldn’t have just laid there the whole time-how boring would that be! 

“Lord Bridgerton has requested that you have fresh fruits brought up to you should you wish, Miss. And tea. You can read, or I can read to you. I can fetch somebody to play music. And if the water gets cold I will heat some more.” Maria smiled. 

“Well that all sounds lovely...but would you not get bored? What about Lady Bridgerton? I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” Penny bit her lip, sitting up in the bath. Maybe she should get out and head home?

“Miss, Lady Bridgerton knows you’re here. The staff have been preparing Miss Eloise’s old room for you.”

“What on earth for?” Penelope asked, her eyebrows scrunched up.

“I- I apologise Miss, I think that is best left explained by Lord Bridgerton.” 

Penelope sighed, and sank back down into the water. Frankly, she still felt roughened up, and she ached _everywhere._ Perhaps, she thought, relaxing her shoulders, she should savour the feeling of _baths_ and worry about the world being upside down afterwards. 

“Could I have some tea, please? Chamomile?” She asked softly, lavender and jasmine filling her senses.

“Of course, Miss.”

***

Anthony and Benedict Bridgerton’s morning was very different to Penelope's; a lot less throwing up, and sadly _no_ baths whatsoever.

Instead, Anthony was roused only a few hours after he’d fallen asleep, his mind running wild with thoughts of young Featherington by a sharp rap at the door.

“Five more minutes,” Anthony grumbled, still half-asleep and unwilling to straighten himself from the uncomfortable chaise he’d slumbered on.

“No can do, brother dear.” Benedict shouted, and Anthony lifted his head, only to come face first with a cushion, landing with a sharp _thwack_ on his face.

“Benedict, you twat!” Anthony groaned, and made to throw the cushion back. Benedict, looking much more sprightly than Anthony felt, managed to dodge it without difficulty. Anthony swore, straightening himself up.

“Come now, brother. Surely you’ve not forgotten our very grave mission this morning?” He said, and Anthony sighed, recognition dancing in his mind’s eye.

“Fuck.” Benedict smirked, though it looked more like a grimace. Truly, a morning of Portia Featherington would be enough to drive a man to drink.

 _No wonder Lord Bridgerton turned to laudanum._ Anthony thought, rather bitterly, and he surprised himself by the vitriol he felt towards the woman. Towards the whole family.

“How Miss Featherington put up with her for so long will forever astound me,” he decided to quip instead, standing up and smoothing out his clothing. 

“Should we wake Penelope before we go?” Anthony asked, and Benedict grinned.

“Brother, Miss Featherington will, upon waking, experience her very first hangover. And her very first hangover cure. I don’t think we should be anywhere near _that_ experience. I asked one of the maids to get a tub sorted for when she’s awoken.” Anthony’s spine straightened.

“Well, that was surprisingly kind of you.” Benedict rolled his eyes, and smirked. He seemed to have a constant smirk on his face, and sometimes, Anthony rather thought he might like to punch it off.

He wished he had thought of it, first. Though he could not place why that bothered him at all. It was just a bath, for Heaven’s sake! A kind gesture to be sure, but nothing intimate! Why did he care if it _was_ intimate anyway?

“Don’t worry, I told them that it was on _your_ orders, and to relay that information to Miss Featherington.” Anthony’s eyebrows furrowed, and his lips puckered downwards. He couldn’t help the thrum of relief that danced through him. And why was he relieved?

Questions upon questions without answers, these days. And Benedict’s look of self-satisfaction didn’t help any. He looked like Anthony had just confirmed his thoughts, though what those thoughts might be Anthony couldn’t fathom.

Still, he was being a smug fucking _cock_ about it.

And he told him as such.

They left their home short moments later, only sparing time for Anthony to make himself look presentable, and checking with the staff that the bulk of Penelope's belongings had been removed from the house in the wee hours of the morning.

(The last few items would be in Penelope's new room within the hour, and the household staff had worked tirelessly with the Featherington staff to ensure that nobody had been made aware of the process. Penelope was truly beloved by the members of her household, and had quickly won over the Bridgerton staff in her many visits over the years.)

***

Across the street at the Featherington Estate, life was in full swing; Portia Featherington had been flurrying about all morning, making demands from her maids to pack up her things for their return to the countryside. 

“You!” She shouted at a young maid, holding a garish gown aloft. “What is this?”

“M-ma’am?” The young maid stuttered, confused.

“This stain!” She cried. “Were you so inept that you could not get it out? Was a simple stain too difficult for you, _hmm?_ ” 

“N-no Ma’am, I’ll get that fixed right away for you, Ma’am.” The maid curtseyed, and Portia flung the dress towards her. 

“It’s too late for that now, isn’t it!” She hissed. “I’ll be _sure_ to tell the Baron about this. Now, where are Prudence and Phillipa?” She asked, striding from her room to the staircase.

“GIRLS!” She shouted shrilly, and soon enough, her eldest daughters made their appearance.

“Mama?” Phillipa asked sleepily. 

“Get ready, girls! Goodness sake, we’re heading to the country in an hours’ time! Make sure you have your things ready!” She turned, making her way down the stairs.

“Where’s Penelope, Mother?” Prudence asked, the pair deciding to trail their mama rather than get themselves ready.

“Probably in the kitchens,” Phillipa sniped, and the two giggled. 

“You-” Portia pointed to a servant of the household. “Go to the kitchens this _instant_ and get my great lump of a daughter _upstairs, sharpish._ ” He bowed and hightailed it to the kitchens. 

“There,” Portia smiled, “your sister will be joining us soon to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Mama? Where is she going?” Phillipa asked. Prudence shoved her sister with her elbow. “Ow!” She cried.

“You two! Get ready-now!” She shouted, and the pair scarpered back upstairs. Portia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

At least next season she would only have to focus on _two_ hopeless daughters.

“Madame Varley?” She called out. At her housekeeper’s lack of response, Portia decided to look around for her.

“Madame Varley?” She called again, this time hearing a commotion coming from the front door. 

Indeed, Madame Varley was at the front door, braced close against it as if to protect the house from whatever was outside. 

“Madame Varley what on Earth are you-Oh!” Portia gasped, swooping into a low curtsey. “Lord Bridgerton! Mister Bridgerton! Come now, Madame Varley, let the two gentlemen inside!” She pushed her housekeeper aside, heading towards the parlour. Anthony and Benedict followed. 

The two men strode into the parlour with a purpose; giving only the slightest of bows. Madame Varley followed behind, slinking into the corner of the room. 

"My Lords! What pleasure brings you two to my household today?" She simpered, curtseying low. 

"Lady Featherington, I have come to understand that the Estate has come under control of Baron Featherington, yes?" Anthony asked, smiling. If Portia had any sense of observation, she would have made note of the icy look in his eyes, and the tightness of his rigid form, one that was mirrored in his brother."Is he here?" 

"I'm afraid not, my lord. The Baron headed to the bank early this morning to make preparations for the summer; perhaps I can assist you, instead? Please, take a seat!" She flapped. 

“I’m afraid it is not a social visit, my Lady.” Benedict stated, his jaw tense.

“Oh? What can I assist you with, gentlemen?” Portia asked. 

“I assume you’re preparing to head to the countryside, Lady Featherington?” Anthony asked, ignoring her question altogether.

“Why- yes, My Lord. Baron Featherington has been kind enough that he will be allowing the girls to present at the season next year, so I will be spending the time away preparing them.”

“I thought that one Mr Finch had made his proposal to your daughter-Phillipa?” Benedict asked, raising an eyebrow. Portia flushed.

“I-I had to use her dowry to settle some of my late husband’s leftover debts. But no matter, the Baron is sponsoring both Phillipa and Prudence’s season next year.”

“Not Penelope, too?” Anthony asked, and it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. Portia laughed. It was a shrill, spine-tingling sound. Anthony’s hand clenched.

“Penelope? Oh, _heaven’s no!_ Penelope will not be presented next year. She needs to work on herself, you see. The biggest cow may be the first for slaughter, but the biggest lady is the last to find a husband, yes?” She giggled. 

As if it was a funny _joke._

“ _Excuse me?”_ Benedict hissed. Portia continued on, completely oblivious to the fact that both Bridgerton men looked seconds away from committing murder.

“Well, just between us, Sir, my youngest has never learned the virtue of _self-control,_ has she? She’s not exactly the most desirable of the Ton, and certainly not the smallest, despite how hard I’ve _tried._ ” 

“I see.” Anthony bit out. Portia smiled, like they were in on a secret together.

“I know your younger sister and Penelope are fond of each other, my Lord- and I am grateful for it! That your family has been so charitably kind to her. But she does harm your sister’s prospects by their friendship, does she not?”

“I think, Lady Featherington,” Anthony hissed, his eyes dark, “that you are giving my family entirely too much credit. Penelope is not a _charity case_ to us.”

“Of course not, my Lord!” She said conspiratorially, winking. 

“Lady Featherington,” Benedict interjected, his own face cloudy, “speaking of your daughter and your...situation, my brother and I have a proposal.”

Portia’s eyes widened.

“Oh!” She shrieked. “A proposal? For one of my girls? For _both_ of them?” She turned to Madame Varley.

“Madame, get the girls at once- we must begin preparations!” Anthony coughed. 

“Actually, Lady Featherington. Not that kind of proposal. We are proposing to take Penelope in as our ward; to sponsor her next season.” Portia’s brows furrowed.

“Penelope? You want _Penelope?_ ” She asked, chuckling bemusedly. “Why would _anybody_ be interested in Penelope?”

“Lady Featherington, do you know where your youngest is right now?” Benedict asked.

“Probably in the kitchens, I haven’t yet spoken to her since evening last.” Portia rolled her eyes. Anthony took a step forward.

“Actually, Miss Featherington stayed with Eloise last night-” it was a lie, but an acceptable reason for her to be at the estate- “and she seemed rather adamant that she could _not_ go home.” He stepped towards Portia again.

“Silly girl!” She hissed, though her eyes were wide and her neck had flushed. “I apologise, my Lord! I hope she did not inconvenience you too much- I’ll be sure to get her in line when she returns-”

“No need.” Anthony hissed. His voice was calm, quiet, and ice cold. He took a step closer; a predator going in for the kill. Portia backed up, her body moving on it’s own.

“Miss Featherington was rather distraught last night. Do you know why?” He stepped forward again. 

“N-no, my Lord.” 

“She confessed, Lady _Featherington,_ that you had demanded she marry the Baron. Or be turned out of her _home._ Do you know anything about that, Lady Featherington?” He stepped forward again. Portia stepped back, tripping as she hit the chaise lounge and falling back.

“My Lord- it was a simple disagreement! I would ne-”

“I thought long and hard, about what type of woman, what type of _mother,_ would dangle her very kind and gentle daughter’s happiness and well-being above her head in such a callous, calculating manner. I think our conversation just minutes prior has shown me _what_ type of woman you are, Featherington.” He smiled, his teeth bared.

Portia’s heart raved, and she had to swallow the lump in her throat. He towered above her, but lowered himself slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. 

“I cannot fathom how somebody as kind as your youngest daughter was borne of such a vapid and cruel woman such as yourself- how she remained kind and gentle in such a loveless home. So here is my offer for you, Lady Featherington. I shall take Miss Penelope on-board as my ward. She shall move in and be treated like any other Bridgerton under my care. I shall sponsor her next season, and the next one after that if needed, until she has found a man worthy of giving her the _love_ and respect that was so clearly lacking here.” He smiled again, icily, and straightened up, looking down his nose at Portia.

“My Lord!” Portia rankled, her eyes lighting up. “How _dare_ you talk to me in this way! I-I am a _lady,_ ” Anthony barked out a harsh laugh.

“A lady?” He questioned, quirking his eyebrows. “A dour woman, wed to a pathetic man who spent his meagre fortune faster than his harpy of a wife could spend it on cheap, _tacky_ belongings. You were new money, Lady Featherington.” He smirked. “And now you’re of no money, no means...and it shows. If not for my older sister and brother in law, I doubt the Ton would let your daughters present next year at all. So don’t tell me how to speak to _you,_ when I am your better in every way that counts. Respect is earned, and you certainly have not earned mine.” He chided her almost teasingly.

Like it was a joke. Even if his eyes said otherwise.

Portia swallowed. She couldn’t counteract him-he was _right,_ after all.

“You and your family shall not say another unkind word about her or to her. In fact, you shall not contact her at all; if she wants to speak to you, so be it, but you will not make that decision for her.” 

Portia found her voice, shakily. “Wh-why would you do that for her?”

“Because,” Anthony stated, smoothing down the front of his waistcoat. “She has been a great friend to our sister, to our whole family. Because my mother sees her as another Bridgerton already. Because she deserves _more_ than any Featherington could ever provide her.” He stepped back, and Portia finally felt like she could breathe.

The atmosphere was suffocating.

“Do you accept these terms?” Benedict chipped in, his arms crossed in front of him; his body was tense, pulled taut like a nocked bowstring; ready to snap.

“I-y-yes.” 

“Good.” Anthony stated, looking now over to Madame Varley who had been watched with wide, frightened eyes. “We had the maids take most of Miss Featherington’s things last night, please ensure that everything from her room has been taken.” He turned his back to Portia, striding towards the door, not dignifying her with a second glance. Benedict followed dutifully, and they both bowed at a young butler who opened the doors for them. They heard footsteps behind them.

“Mama?” Phillipa called, running downstairs, Prudence quickly in tow.

“Who was at the door? Was it Mr Finch?”

The door closed behind the two men. 

The bright sunshine beat down cheerily, and Anthony took a deep breath. Fresh air swirled around their lungs, the tension falling from their shoulders as they began the short walk back home.

“Well,” Benedict breathed. “That was…”

“Awful?” Anthony asked. Benedict chuckled, nodding.

“I have never considered violence against a woman until now.” He murmured with a growl. 

“Indeed.” Anthony sighed. He felt exhausted, now. “Now to break the news to Miss Featherington.”

“Ahh, brother. Featherington no more. She could go by Bridgerton, perhaps. Become our sister.” Anthony glared, and Benedict laughed brightly. 

Smug prick.

“No, not wanting a familial thread to Miss Penelope?” He asked, smirking. Anthony shoved him in the shoulder. “Ouch!”

“You’re a prick.”

“I’m still your favourite, though.”

“My favourite is Hyacinth.” He quipped, and Benedict held a palm to his heart.

“Oh, brother! Thou hast wounded me perilously!”

Anthony rolled his eyes, but couldn’t stop the grin at the corners of his mouth. 

One problem down...a million more to go.

“I think, dear brother, that it’s high time we fetch Miss Penelope from her bath. Would you like to do the honours?” Benedict winked. “Or shall I?”

“We’ll get a _maid_ to do it,” Anthony bit out as the pair entered the estate.

“Do what?” Eloise asked, head tilted to one side.

“Oh, nothing dear sister,” Benedict smiled brightly, moving to ruffle her hair. Eloise shrieked at him, but he continued before she could retaliate. “Just fetch Miss Penelope from her bath, to tell her that she’s now officially a Bridgerton ward and will be living with us from now on.”

 _“What?”_ Eloise cried out, her hand moving to her mouth. She spun towards Anthony, questions flooding her eyes; he nodded, and she shrieked.

“You didn’t think to tell me?!” 

“It only happened last night, sister dear. You were asleep.” Anthony stated, but Eloise moved towards him, poking him sharply in the chest as she reiterated.

“You didn’t think to tell me that my best _friend,_ my sister of the _soul,_ was here and here for _good?_ ”

“El,” Anthony grabbed her shoulders, stifling her tirade. “She came here...her mother had turned her out of house and home for not wedding the Baron Featherington. She was exhausted...I didn’t want her to be inundated with questions that she could not handle-not least until we had made a visit Lady Featherington today to get her guardianship in order. Can you forgive me for that?” He asked.

Manageable half-truths. He may have confided in his mother and Benedict, mostly out of necessity and feeling absolutely _lost_ with how to help.

But Penelope’s secrets were hers and hers alone to divulge as she felt comfortable.

Eloise stiffened, and her eyes misted over.

“Oh, _Penelope._ ” She breathed. “Where is she, brother?” She asked with a sniff.

“Guest rooms, third one down. She’ll be having a bath.” 

Eloise nodded, smiling tightly to her brothers before dashing upstairs, taking them several at a time and practically stumbling up in her haste to get to her dearest friend and confidante. 

Oh, Penelope, indeed.

“She has her friend there for her now, brother.” Benedict stated, clapping him on the shoulder. “Give them some time alone, let her relax. In the meantime, we can come up with a plan.”

“A plan?” Anthony asked, somewhat dazed. Benedict smiled, much more gently and without a hint of his usual teasing. 

“Yes. A plan. A quest. To help Miss Penelope.” His voice was soft, but Benedict’s jaw was set hard. He had a steely look of determination in his eyes that bolstered Anthony. Benedict rarely took anything seriously; it was no secret to Anthony that his brother often shirked duty. This was important.

“To make her know that she is loved and wanted by all of us, and to help her love herself; so that she may never attempt what she did last night.” Benedict continued, nodding towards himself.

“I’ll come up with a better name for it.”

Penelope was unaware of Eloise stumbling up the stairs with tears in her eyes, or of the quiet plans being plotted by the eldest Bridgerton men. She was unaware that now, there were people in her corner.

People who loved her.

Truly and without conditions.

She would not remain unaware for long.


	3. In a Viscount’s office, on opposite sides of the desk. (Two wretched, broken, beautiful beings sat, holding hands)

The bath had cooled slightly, but Penelope felt no need to move just yet. She felt boneless; floating. 

Was this Heaven?

Perhaps she had drowned, and this was what was waiting for her- a wonderful dream of Bridgertons, and a hot bath. 

_That wouldn’t be so bad,_ Penelope supposed. 

A foolish dream. She knew Anthony had been her apparent ‘rescuer,’ even if it felt more like condemning her once more. Penelope felt awful at the anger she felt towards the Viscount for thwarting her plans- it was unfair treatment, for he only did what he thought was right, even if what was _right_ for her was letting her drown. 

Letting her disappear.

She could not really be angry with him for that, could she?

Though, she lamented, perhaps the universe had one more use for her yet. She knew not what it was; but surely she had to.

The beast inside her stirred.

_ Remember how it felt to disappear? _ It whispered sweetly.

Penelope sighed, sinking her head under the water. She could hold her breath for a moment, a minute; feel the burning in her lungs as they cried for air; feel the water tickling her lips, a siren’s song begging her to part them and let the water in, and suddenly she was back there, in the water, black spots in her vision and a show looming over her and-

“Penelope!” Eloise cried, slamming open the doors and racing in. Penelope gasped, lurching up out of the water, spluttering and coughing as she fought to regain her breath.

“Eloise!” She shouted out, her hand going to her racing heart.

“Oh, Pen!” Eloise stumbled, caring not for Penelope’s unravel led and distressed state, nor the impropriety, and she fell down onto her knees beside the bathtub. Penelope twisted her hips as much as she could, and Eloise motioned, grasping her hand tight. Her dearest friend looked at her with wide, misted eyes.

“Is it true? Did your mother really turn you out of house and home?”

Oh, Eloise. Penelope could not stop her own tears as reality hit her.

She was homeless. She was alone. 

“Y-Yes.” She cried out, and Eloise cared not about getting soaked as she fell forward to embrace her dearest friend. Penelope couldn’t help but cry. 

“Your mother is wretched.” Eloise sniffed, and Penelope chuckled, a soft, watery sound. She pulled back, her eyes going to Maria, who had stood aside dutifully awaiting command. The woman seemed to understand without her saying the words, and she curtseyed low.

“My Ladies, I shall be back soon with a change of clothing from your room, Lady Penelope.” 

“Excuse me?” Penelope said, her brows furrowed. “What room?” Eloise laughed brightly, capturing Penelope’s attention enough to allow Maria to make a hasty exit.

“Oh, Pen! Anthony, my dear brother, has had your things moved here- he’s to take you on as his ward! Isn’t that brilliant?” She beamed.

Penelope’s mind screeched to a halt, and the strangest part of her felt...angry.

He was making another decision for her, without her opinion on the matter regarded at all. 

Goodness, Penelope thought, is that why he visited my mother? Her ire grew. She was supposed to feel grateful, but all Penelope could feel was like she had gone from being her mother’s punching bag to the Bridgertons’ burden. 

He had good intentions to be sure; Penelope never knew Anthony to be cruel or callous- but he was evidently somebody that took action, believing his choices to be the best choices without considering other people’s feelings on the matter.

Her blood boiled.

“Pen?” Eloise asked, and Penelope’s attention was snapped back to her friend, who was looking at her curiously. 

“Did you hear me?” She asked, and Penelope blushed, shaking her head. Eloise laughed.

“Oh Pen! We can spend the rest of the season trying to find out who Lady Whistledown is! We no longer have to abide by your mother’s whims- we can spend everyday together! Won’t that be brilliant?” Penelope smiled gently, patting Eloise’s hand. She noticed Maria slip back into the room.

“Oh of course it will, Eloise! We’ll get on it once I’ve settled in, yes? I- I still feel rather- I need to-”

“My Lady, I have your clothes here for when you are ready.” Maria cut in.

Bless her soul.

Eloise nodded solemnly, springing up from her place on the floor. How she could bounce so easily between despair and excitement so easily, Penelope would never know. When Penelope felt, it coursed through her body and raced in her blood until she became it, whether the feeling in question was melancholy or joy or the anger that she felt at Anthony Bridgerton.

“I shall leave you to change, and get settled- I took over Daphne’s room when she left, so you’ll be having my old one in the family wing- and you come and find me when you’re ready-won’t you?” She asked. Sometimes, Eloise knew exactly what to say. Penelope smiled, patting Eloise’s hand. 

“Of course.” She waved her friend goodbye, her blue dress floating out the door with her. 

Penelope sighed. 

“I suppose I should get out of the bathtub.”

“Only if you want to, My Lady.” Maria said. “Only if you’re ready to.”

Penelope nodded, grasping the edges of the tub and standing up shakily; she really had gone boneless from her soak, and Maria had to steady her arms and help her out.

She slipped off her chemise, drying off as quickly as possible. She didn’t want to look at her own body, let alone have somebody else look at it. Even with her own ladies’ maids, they’d never seen her so undressed.

_ How disgusting. _ The beast whispered. Penelope bit back a whimper.

Maria raised an eyebrow. 

“My Lady...forgive my impertinence...it’s nothing I haven’t seen before and you are a beautiful young woman- you have naught to be shy for.” Penelope froze, her gaze flickering to Maria, and she coughed, blushing bright red.

“I-Yes, of course.” She swallowed, and straightened her spine.

She still dried as quickly as she could. Except now she tried to make it seem less obvious.

Judging by the look on Maria’s face, she was not successful.

Still, she felt more comfortable as she got dressed, and she grew ever more grateful for Maria. She had picked out one of her less garish dresses- a mint green, a fairly plain dress that Penelope had bought from a middling modiste with the first of her Lady Whistledown earnings; after all, a bright yellow dress would not be conducive to blending into the streets of London, let alone visiting the small, nondescript publisher’s office in the heart of working class London.

It felt looser than usual; her stays were more comfortable- was she finally shedding her much derided extra poundage?

She wondered if it was just perhaps that she wasn’t suffocating in the out-of-fashion corsets her mother had made two-sizes too small to stuff her into, rather than any success at losing weight. She pinched her arm sharply, and the sudden stinging reminded her to be careful today.

She would not eat today, just to be sure. 

_ Doesn’t it feel good to be empty? _ The beast purred, and it curled around her.  _ Let the well run dry. _

Penelope left her hair loose and damp around her shoulders, her shock of red already curling.

She would tame it later if needs be, but having it out of the tense styles that induced headaches was a blessing- and she made her way to the doors.

“Thank you, Maria.” Penelope smiled, turning back towards the maid.. “I’ll head to Eloise’s room- or...well, my room I suppose.” 

“Of course, My Lady. I shall have the staff remove the tub and take your clothes to the laundress, and I will return to assist you with anything you may need.” She stated, curtseying. Penelope nodded, before turning around and walking to her new room.

The anger burned in the back of her mind; smouldering.

She walked the familiar path to Eloise's- her- room, opening the doors and slipping inside gently. Her things had evidently been put away; though it seemed like the staff had taken everything they could out of her room; paintings were leant against the wall, waiting for her to decide what to do with them. Eloise’s old vanity, which she fondly remembered being covered with ink stains from Eloise writing rather than doing her hair- had been replaced with her own vanity, her small writing desk slotting in next to it. 

Penelope’s heart thrummed as she remembered what lay inside the largest drawer.

She had almost forgotten.

She flew towards the desk, biting her lip as she rummaged around and pulled out a box, opening it hastily; it was stuffed with bank notes, and she dug around until she hit the small leather notebook she kept underneath the piles of money.

Her notes- her diary, Lady Whistledown’s checks and balances, her special quill-pen; everything about her biggest secret lay there in that box. 

She knew it was unsafe- but she checked her notes with the total marked in the “balances” section of her notebook, and sighed in relief. It had clearly gone undisturbed- her secret was safe, she could-

”BOO!”

Penelope shrieked, and stumbled backwards. Eloise popped her head around the dressing screen, laughing brightly.

“Oh, Pen! You should have seen your face!” She laughed, and Penelope forced her breath to get back under control. Eloise cocked her head to the side.

“What’s that?” She asked, her eyebrows raised curiously. 

She took a step forward.

“Oh! Just some jewelry Mama had given me- I worried she’d taken it back-” Penelope hurried, and stopped her own sigh of relief as Eloise’s face scrunched up distastefully.

She had gotten good at changing the topic whenever Eloise came too close.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Eloise grinned, falling backwards onto the bed. Penelope settled the box back in the drawer of her writing desk and smiled brightly back at the middle Bridgerton child. 

“What do you want to do first?” Eloise asked her.

Well. Nobody had asked her what she wanted to do in a long time.

She thought long and hard.

Her eyes caught sight of a garish butterfly brooch on her vanity, and the idea came to her so suddenly she could not believe she hadn’t thought of it straight away.

“I think,” Penelope smirked, walking over to where she remembered Eloise’s clothes used to be stored; sure enough, the walk-in closet was now filled to bursting point with garish yellow frocks and bright green gowns. “I want to get rid of as many of these horrible dresses as possible. Perhaps donate them to a modiste downtown for the less fortunate?” She considered.

“Though maybe the most charitable thing to do would actually be to burn them.” She added, grabbing out one of her most hated gowns.

Eloise laughed brightly, clapping her hands together. 

It caused Penelope’s heart to glow. 

Eloise was a gift, and truly her sister of the soul. 

And Eloise had the  _ brilliant, amazing, utterly fantastic _ ability to know exactly what Penelope needed at that moment, even if the young woman didn’t know it herself.

Right now? She needed a partner of destruction with a grudge against yellow and bright pink.

“Well then! Let’s get started.” Eloise flung the door open wide.

_ “MARIA!” _ She shouted.

Penelope’s heart glowed again.

***

They had scourged Penelope’s clothing options, getting rid of endless amounts of garish dresses until only a small selection of clothes remained.

Most of the said dresses had been purchased by Penelope in secret, and one could tell straight away that they were not Portia Featherington’s choices. 

They were simple, in shades of soft greens and dusty blues, though they were un-embellished and not nearly as decorated as the various blue clothes that decorated the Bridgertons each day. They were plain and unassuming, but still elegant and well-made.

She kept her necessities like chemises and bedclothes; they had been the only thing Penelope could ever choose for herself, and she wanted them. As a reminder. 

They had sent Maria to fetch some hands to take the discarded clothes downtown; it turned out that her maid- for apparently Maria was now her personal maid, and Penelope was grateful for that for Maria truly was  _ brilliant _ \- knew of a small, family-run dressmaker’s; a place that could make use of the veritable mountain of fabrics and embellishments and who would create clothes that were more affordable for those that needed it.

Maria was an angel, sent from Heaven. 

Penelope looked at her near-empty closet, and smiled, a small weight lifting off her shoulders as piece by piece, everything that made her a Featherington disappeared. 

“Well, I think we did well there, Pen.” Eloise grinned. “Now Anthony had strict instructions for the rest of the rabble to not bother you today, and to let you decompress.” She rolled her eyes, her hands on her hips. 

“I think he just didn’t want Gregory and Hyacinth to bother you too much.” She whispered conspiratorially, and Penelope laughed lightly.

“They are never any bother to me... But I do appreciate his thoughtfulness. I think I might turn in for the night early.” Penelope said. Eloise frowned, chewing on her lip. 

“But you haven’t eaten yet today!”

_ You didn’t need it, did you? _ The beast whispered proudly. Penelope hated how satisfied that made her feel, even as she had to hold her stomach and beg for it not to growl.

“Oh, I had plenty whilst I bathed, and to be honest I am much too exhausted to stomach another mouthful.” Penelope said airily.

A bold-faced lie. 

Eloise could not find the deceit in her friend’s gaze or visage, so she simply shrugged, bidding her ‘night. 

Thank goodness for small mercies.

***

It was late, and Penelope had not yet slept. 

Maria had built her a fire, for which Penelope was grateful; it cast a soft glow in the room, filling every available nook and cranny with warmth, but Penelope still felt cold.

She felt cold to the bones.

Penelope sat against the sill of the bay window, looking out into the street below. Sunset streaked across the sky; the first stars peeked out from the rapidly darkening blue of the sky, twinkling.

Penelope remembered how the stars looked from the docks, and sighed. 

It truly was a most beautiful night to disappear, and she had failed.

_ You can’t even disappear correctly, can you? _ The beast mocked. Penelope did her best to ignore it, even as she felt the sting of failure.

The stars from her view at the window didn’t compare. 

Her eyes were drawn by some damned force to the house across the street.

Featherington Estate.

Tears pricked at her eyes; perhaps she had been unhappy there, but it was her  _ home _ . 

And then it was not. 

She could see the hack below; the horses waiting for orders patiently; the driver looking half-asleep, slumped ever so slightly in his seat.

And then, light from the doorway. 

Her mother and sisters spilled out onto the doorstep, the light from inside creating garish silhouettes of their bodies, and they moved towards the hack. Penelope couldn’t hear, but she saw the driver startle awake and snap the reins.

The horses started moving out of Grosvenor Square.

And her family had gone.

Truly, she had lost them. 

Her stomach growled, whether in comfort or in hunger Penelope didn’t know. 

She could ignore the hunger, but she could not so easily satiate the beast inside of her that wanted pain, hurt, to feel  _ everything  _ in her head.

To have it spilled out onto her flesh and given a physical, tangible scar.

_ Do it, come on. Surely you can do one thing right? _

Penny looked behind her to the fireplace. The soft flames had turned into a smoulder, casting the room in darkness. She slipped off the windowsill and padded softly to the fireplace, grabbing a poker.

Penelope prodded the coals absently, her mind wandering. 

The tip of the poker grew a glowing red, and as Penelope lifted it out of the fire, she exhaled softly.

It was so beautiful. So gentle and disarming.

But she knew just how painful it would be.

Penelope stilled for a moment, the beast inside her fighting with her rational mind.

_Touch it._ _Go on. I bet you won’t. I bet you’re too scared. You’re a coward. You couldn’t disappear and you can’t do this either._

The beast won.

She lifted her hand tentatively, slowly moving towards the hot end of the poker. Her hand grew slick with the heat that already licked at her flesh, and she made to close her hand around it wh-

“Penelope?”

She gasped, dropping the poker and scattering back. It landed on the floor with a loud clatter of metal. The door swung open and the light of the hallway flooded her room.

Anthony. 

“Penelope, are you well?” His eyes spotted the poker on the ground, thankfully landing on the stone of the fireplace. “You haven’t gotten hurt, have you?” He moved closer, invading her bubble, and she gasped doggedly, her hands fisted tight against her sides. Her nails dug sharply into the skin of her palms until she could feel them stinging.

“N-No! Not at all, you just shocked me is all- what were you calling for?” She asked, counting in her mind.

_ Breathe, Penelope. _

“I hoped I could perhaps speak to you.” Anthony said, his eyes solemn. “About last night.” 

“...Oh.”

“Would you- I don’t quite think it’s proper for me to be in your room.” He said, swallowing thickly. “Would you be willing to come to my study with me?”

“It’s not like I have any prior engagements.” Penelope smiled, though, she didn’t really have a choice in the matter, did she?

Her anger from earlier had been lost in her task with Eloise, but now it was back in full force. 

Smouldering. 

Penelope forced her hands to unclench. 

“One moment.” She grabbed a small jug of water from her bedside table, placed there by Maria for drinking, put Penelope instead poured it over the coals, watching as they hissed and crackled and died.

She didn’t want to burn the house down, no matter how angry she was at him.

Penelope followed him deferentially, even if she was burning on the inside. He sat her down in the chair in front of his desk.

“Um...drink?” He asked, his hand going to his hair and he lit up a small, lumpy, almost used-up candle that sat on his desk. He shook the match until the flame died and set it down.

He looked at her, his eyes swimming with questions. 

Anthony tilted he head towards the drinks cabinet. A silent question, this time.

She shook her head silently.

He sighed softly, like he had hoped she would stall for time and was disappointed that she hadn't; and sat in his chair, peering over at her gently.

_It was his choice to interrogate her, he can bloody well get started on it!_ Penelope thought to herself.

“So...Penelope-” He stumbled, not sure how to find the words. “Why were you on the docks?”

She didn’t answer him.

“Why did you- did you have plans on- on doing what you were going to do?” He asked. Part of her wanted to spill her heart out.

Part of her wanted to shut down. 

She said nothing. Anthony sighed, messing his hair up.

“Penelope- why? Why were you going to- to-”

“Kill myself?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. His own brows shot up into his hairline. He hadn’t expected to answer him so...icily. 

“Y-Yes.”

She shrugged. 

Anthony felt his own blood heating up in response, and he bit back a growl of frustration. 

“Penelope. Please- I only want to help you-”

“Help me?” Penelope cried suddenly, standing up from her chair. It teetered precariously behind her before settling. “It’s all well and good that you want to help, Lord Bridgerton, but you have no idea-”

“Then help me understand!” He shouted back. Standing up to meet her eyes head-on. Penelope scoffed, fire blazing in her eyes.

“You can’t- you cannot just expect me to bare my soul to you at your whim! To tell you every wretched thought in my soul! You can’t expect me to just do as you wish- I appreciate you taking me in, I do- but you never, not once, asked me what I wanted.” Penelope slumped into her chair. Tears ran down her cheeks- but not of sadness. No, she didn’t look sad. She looked frustrated; baleful. Exhausted. Anthony sat back down in his chair, and Penelope met his eyes, this time.

“You did what you thought was best without considering even asking me- and whilst you had good intentions, Anthony...you did the exact same thing that my mother has been doing for years.”

Oh. Oh. 

“ _ Gods… _ ” Anthony breathed. “Penelope...I-I’m so sorry- I just-”

“I know,” she murmured, wanting nothing more than to touch him, to take his hand. She laid one of her hands on the desk, instead. 

Limply.

Uncertain.

Anthony was rattled. He had been hurting her.

He was a callous bastard. 

“You were trying to do the right thing- and I appreciate it. I do. You have given me a home, and I know I should be grateful- you saved my life, and I should be falling at my feet to thank you- but I have spent my whole life being played like a marionette. I don’t want you to do the same thing.” 

“You’re right.” Anthony stated simply. Penelope swallowed thickly, and his other hand dropped over hers. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, softly, before letting her hand go.

She didn’t want him to let go.

The look in his eyes was earnest, and they never left her face as he spoke. She wanted to look away, but she felt herself drawn back each time.

“Penelope...I’m so sorry. I will never do anything without asking you again-except to save your life.” His jaw was set. “I will not apologise for that. Ever.”

“I suppose that is agreeable with me.” She smiled gently.

Silence. Cloying and suffocating.

“I think I’m messing everything up.” Anthony said in the not-quite darkness. 

“What?” Penelope asked. She was confused. He made a mistake, but he didn’t mess everything up...what did he mean? Anthony took a slow breath, his body tensing. 

“I- I believe that Benedict would have been a much better heir than I. I strong-armed Daphne into an engagement because I believed I had to do the right thing and be a great Viscount, like Father. But I ruined it, and engaged her to a brute. If not for Simon, she would have been wedded to a detestable man. And I did the same here. I try and _try_ and _every_ time I think I am taking responsibility, every time I believe that I am doing good, it turns out I have simply browbeaten others into doing what I want without consideration for their feelings on the matter.” He choked out, and Penelope’s heart seized painfully for him.

He became a Viscount too soon, too  _ young _ for his own good.

Left with a legacy he didn’t know how to fill, and a families' grief to bear.

“I wish, sometimes,” He murmured so softly that Penelope had to strain to hear him, “that the bee had stung me rather than Father. I’m a coward, I cannot look at a bee without fearing that one of my family will be taken from me again...I used to love honey. Now I can’t taste it without seeing my dead Father’s body splayed before me. I taste ash.” 

“Anthony,” She crooned at him. His hand was clenched tight on the table, and she couldn’t resist the urge any longer; she took his hand and gently uncurled his fingers, smoothing them out one by one and began tracing patterns into his hands.

He had bared his soul to her. 

It was only fair.

“I think that in all my years, I have not been truly alive,” She started with a sigh. 

“I have felt like a ghost in my own body...in my own home. I have always been fascinated by dying- I suppose that maybe it would have provided me the peace I longed for...a way to forget.” 

She couldn’t help her own tears from falling; the dam had well and truly broken, and the few sticks that remained could not stop the currents from doing what currents do.

“I am a broken, wretched being. And I think I have been all my life. I don’t know if I can be fixed.”

“Are- are you going to-”

“Try it again?” Penelope asks. Anthony nodded. She pretended to not notice the tear tracks on his face. “No,” She responded, finally, and surprised even herself by meaning it. 

“I think perhaps the universe has at least one more use for me, yet. Perhaps you saving me was providence- a sign that I am useful still, in some way.”

Anthony frowned slightly.

“Penelope...your value is not designated by your usefulness to others.”

She laughed. A harsh, bitter sound.

“I am a woman with no rights of my own. I am valued by my usefulness alone, and will be all my life. Mayhaps men can escape that, but I cannot.” 

Anthony huffed out a single laugh with her.

“I think heirs cannot escape that, either.” 

“Perhaps it is the fatal flaw of humanity. To only desire and be desired by usefulness. Or maybe, we are simply both just wretched beings.” Penelope quipped, a bitter smirk on her lips. Anthony smiled- it reached his eyes and was surprisingly warm. 

It made her _feel_ warm. Seen. Understood.

“That’s okay with me,” Anthony said, “for it means you’ll stay. No wretched being should be forced to walk alone, should it not?” He asked her.

“I suppose you are right there.” 

In a Viscount’s office, on opposite sides of the desk, two wretched, broken, beautiful beings sat, holding hands.

Connected more intimately than the most entwined of lovers. 

The candle had burned low, and the room flickered out into darkness, but they did not move. Penelope continued tracing patterns in Anthony’s palm.

It was not a suffocating darkness. It was not not a cloying silence. It was comfortable. Safe.

Vulnerable.

Penelope’s heart ached for Anthony. He was trying. 

And he was broken, too. 

She could think of many people that deserved to be broken down by the world.

Anthony was, by far, not one of them.

And how hard must it have been for him? To tell her all of the thoughts and feelings he had bottled down for so long?

She wanted to protect him from the world. 

But she couldn’t.

But perhaps she could do _something_.

“I cannot do much...but I will protect you and your family from any bees.” Penelope whispered in the dark. She couldn’t see Anthony’s face, but she could feel how he tensed, just for a moment, before his hand moved to lace itself with hers. 

He had stopped her ministrations, tracing her fingers softly with his own as they locked together.

“I’ll show you how to love the taste of honey again...if you’ll let me.”

She waited, in the darkness.

She hoped she had not overstepped any boundaries.

“Only if you will let me show you. Show you how our family sees you. Show you how to love yourself like you deserve. And show you how to love life…please...”

He begged, for he knew not what else to do. He prayed  _ to  _ her. Prayed for her acceptance. Prayed for a response.

Two broken, beautiful beings. 

Wretched and wonderful, sat on opposite sides of a desk, their hands connected.

Fate weaved its tapestry as fate does; picking the pieces apart and re-threading the needle and cutting loose ends and creating a new picture, a new fate.

They sat in the darkness.

Their souls and bodies and hearts connected more intimately than the most entwined of lovers. 

Twin tear-tracks making their home on their faces; unseen by one another but felt and recognised all the same.

Twin flames, both searching space and time; an infinite gap in the smallest of spaces.

In the quietest shadows and darkest silences.

Both crying silently.

Both reaching out, broken hearts torn out and laid bare; open and bleeding to each other.

The stars outside still twinkled. The earth still turned.

And here they were.

Together.

Penelope felt, for the first time in all her years, a little less alone.

In the darkness, she whispered to him; both a prayer and a promise, for he deserved nothing less, and she could give nothing more.

“Very well.”


	4. Breakfast with Bridgertons (and the Masterful Manipulation)

_Dearest Simon and Daphne Hastings,  
_ _  
__I have delayed in answering your kind invitation to have our family housed with you at Clyvedon Castle for a short while, though not for wanting to avoid a visit._ _  
_ _On the contrary, mother is looking forward to seeing you both, and I think in particular that Hyacinth is excited to visit the countryside and see the horses ‘fore we head to the coast. My delay is due to another matter entirely. I confess now to you both that I have taken a ward into the house, and whilst I understand truly if you do not want to house another of us, I cannot in good conscious go on holiday and leave them in London alone, un-escorted._

 _I’m sure, Daphne, that you know the most of Miss Penelope Featherington, dear Eloise’s closest friend.  
_ _  
__Her mother has gone to the country to prepare her eldest children for the next season, and Penelope confessed to us after a...tumultuous evening, that her mother demanded her being wed to the new Baron Featherington- purportedly a loutish brute of a man- or she would be disowned. Penelope could not fathom one minute wedded to the Baron, and has been quickly struck from the family tree_ _  
_ _She is a Featherington no more, though to be candid I do not believe she has quite processed the matter yet, due to the stressful and emotional events that occurred._ _  
_ _Of course, it is without hesitation that we have taken her in and agreed to sponsor her following season._ _  
_ _And I think if I hadn’t already made the decision to do so, Eloise would have killed me if I had not taken Penelope in as my ward._ _  
_ _I am aware that tensions between our family and the Featherington’s have been...tenuous at best, but you Daphne know of Penelope’s kind and gentle nature._ _  
_ _I confess that I could not picture for a second leaving her to wed the Baron or become another waif on the streets. I am glad to say that despite her shy nature and hesitation, she has embraced our family and we have embraced her._ _  
_ _It is not for me to divulge more into the situation, but I implore you both, and ask that Penelope be allowed to come with us to visit, though I will not force your hand on the matter. Truly, if you do not feel comfortable with her presence, I will understand, and will keep her company as an escort in London ‘till it is time to head ‘North and meet with the rest of the family._ _  
_ _I send this to you with kind love to you both, from everybody here.  
_ _  
_ _Your Brother,_ _  
_ _Anthony Bridgerton._

Daphne’s eyes had misted over, and she looked earnestly towards Simon where she sat in his lap in his office chair, her hand on her heart. She did not know Penelope too well, but she had always been Eloise’s strongest and most loyal supporter, and just knowing how much the young girl meant to her sister- apparently to all of them- was more than enough for her to love Penelope already.

“Simon, we _must_ have her stay!” She sniffed. “Of what, admittedly little that I know of Penelope, she has always been kind and earnest and- oh, what a _horrid_ woman to have turned out her youngest daughter to the street!” Her breath hitched, and Simon leaned down, capturing her lips in a soft, slow kiss.

They parted soon after, and Simon pulled her close. 

“Of course we’ll extend our invitation. I trust your assessment of her character, and I trust your brother to have not made a ward out of somebody cruel. We shall welcome her like we would the rest of the family, yes?” He responded, lips pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And as for Portia Featherington, I am not surprised in the slightest. We shall be glad instead that the young Miss is nothing like her mother is.” Daphne smiled brightly at him, and they kissed again.

It took all his self control not to ravage her there- instead, he moved his lips to her ear.

“Now, why don’t I respond to this letter and you go tell the maids to make up another room, yes? And then we’ll continue where we left off.”

Daphne squeaked in shock and excitement, pressing another solid kiss on Simon’s lips as she cambered off his lap before dashing out the room, excited perhaps to get to the “continue” part of the day. 

Simon grinned momentarily, before opening another letter- one addressed only to him, which he had slyly moved out of Daphne’s gaze.

_Dear Simon,_

_I shall assume you have read my other letter, and are reading this outside of my sister’s presence. I address this only to you, as I believe you are uniquely capable of assisting me._ _  
_ _And, frankly, as much as I love my dear sister, it is not my place to share so much of another’s troubles. In normal circumstances, I would not divulge any of these details to you either, except…_ _  
_ _I am at a loss._ _  
_ _I truly know not what to do or how to help. Miss Penelope became my ward not of her own accord- actually, she was rather angry at me when I told her about it for not consulting her first._ _  
_ _Simon, whilst I am fully cognizant of the fact that it is not my place to spill every secret I have gleaned from Penelope to you, I will be selfish and tell you what I think I need to, so that I can help her, and just beg for her forgiveness later._ _  
_ _I had to save her life, Simon. She was out on the docks and fell in. She wanted...to go the way of her father._ _  
_ _You see?_ _  
_ _Her mother...she’s no mother at all. I think you know what cruel and soul-destroying parents are like. But you had Lady Danbury in your corner, Simon…_ _  
_ _Penelope had nobody. Eloise has not even been made aware of the true circumstances that led to Penelope becoming my ward- only that Portia Featherington turned her away._ _  
_ _She’s had nobody looking out for her, but she does now, yet I am so afraid that I will fail her each and every step of the way. Benedict and Mother know, if only because I did not know whom else to turn to._ _  
_ _But I beseech you, please entreat to me your advice._ _  
_ _Penelope is...different. She loves unconditionally, deeply and ardently and cares for all people, no matter how often she has been hurt or beaten down by her own family. She is not just nice but truly_ kind, _and she deserved more from the world than she has been given._ _  
_ _I admit I have led a much privileged life full of loving family, and I do not know how to support her and help her understand that it has never been her fault; has never been deserved._ _  
_ _I want her to not go one moment more without knowing that she is loved by our family for who she is, yet I know not what to say or do._ _  
_ _I know this is entirely too personal to ask, yet for Penelope, I shall ask anyway._ _  
_ _What did_ you _need to hear? What did you need to have somebody do to know that?_ _  
_ _Despite our disagreements, you have always been my brother-in-arms, Simon. And you can tell me to piss off if you’re not comfortable telling me, but I had to try for her._

 _I will be eagerly awaiting your response, whatever that may be._ _  
_ _Your friend,_ _  
_ _Anthony_ _  
  
_

Simon sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose, his mind whirring. He thought hard, trying to remember the youngest Featherington daughter- a small, plump girl with a sweet smile and the most garish of yellow dresses- Portia’s doing, no doubt about that, but she seemed sweet all the same the brief moments they’d been in the same space as one another. He had a vague recollection of spotting her and Eloise laughing together, but that was all.

Even still, his heart lurched.

He thought of his father, and then thought of Portia. 

The similarities between the two were unmistakable. They had been cut from the same cloth and sewn with the same, bitter thread. 

And Penelope was a _young_ girl, finished with her very first season, and her torment had driven her to-

The similarities between _him_ and Penelope grew. 

His eyes scanned the page again, and Simon couldn’t deny Anthony’s gentle thoughts. 

His friend was absolutely smitten, and from the sounds of it, the poor man had no idea.

 _Anthony was truly fucked,_ Simon chuckled to himself, thinking of his own wife and the fire between them and _burning_ and his walls slowly crumbling bit by bit as his wife kicked and clawed her way into his heart.

But he was not Penelope, and truly, what helped him in the end might not help her- but for Anthony, whom Simon could tell was smitten if not already completely in love with her? 

Well, Simon would tell him where to start, at least.

He picked up his quill, and began to respond. 

***

The young woman in question stared at herself in the mirror.

 _Look at you._ The beast inside her spat. _Disgusting._

Her hands fell to the soft swell of her stomach, and she grabbed at her flesh harshly. The pain brought her mind into a sharp focus.

There was just _too much_ of her. 

The beast was right, Penelope couldn’t disagree.

She was _disgusting._ She thought she had shed some poundage- but that was probably only in her mind. It had to have been... or had she been larger than she thought?

 _Who would marry you?_ The beast snarled, and Penelope bit back the stinging behind her eyes with another sharp squeeze of her stomach, her fingernails decorating her flesh with crescent imprints as she let go to get dressed.

Another day without food. 

Penelope had grown used to that. Used to the well inside her drying up, echoing in loud rumbles until she pinched it into silence. She would have to be careful, pretending to eat around the Bridgertons. She had done so before, but it had been easier around her own family. Around people who hardly took notice except to throw another remark her way, who seemed more likely to celebrate every helping of food she refused.

They encouraged the well to dry up, until her body fell into drought.

Should the Bridgerton family discover what she had been doing, she doubted they would allow it to continue. 

She would drink plenty of water to keep the echoes at bay- Penelope could hear the beast purr at the mere suggestion of it. She could, perhaps, eat a little bit tomorrow if she lasted all day without eating.

It was difficult, but she had done it before.

And it was easier than...the other thing. Easier than sneaking around to empty her chamber pot in the middle of the night to allay suspicion from the maids. To scrub at her tongue and teeth to get rid of the acrid coating lingering in her mouth, to stop the acidic smell passing from her lips. 

If she was good today, she wouldn’t have to do...that...tonight. 

_People might finally notice you._ The beast whispered in her ears once more, and it solidified into determination.

She would get through this day without suspicion, and bring herself one step closer to weightlessness. 

***

Breakfast was a simple, but lively affair, the food spread across the table in the bright and airy drawing room.   
Anthony watched carefully as Penelope sat down on Eloise’s left, across from him. 

He smiled gently at her over his cup of tea, keeping her in his peripherals as he started to eat. Benedict, half-asleep, made a noise of greeting to the young woman before positively shoveling food into his mouth at an alarming rate. Francesca had returned to Bath not long after Colin had departed for Greece, being eager to continue her tutelage under Aunt Winnie’s care  
Violet for her part was making up her own plate, and Gregory and Hyacinth spared her little more than a glance before they started bickering despite Violet’s firm admonishments, and Anthony could see Penelope’s shoulders relax slightly as she settled in. 

He couldn’t stop watching her.

He didn't know why, but Anthony couldn’t stop, and he had eventually given up trying, so he resolved to simply remain subtle about it, watching as Penelope served herself fresh fruit and bread and cake and honey, pouring herself both a glass of water and taking a cup of tea, before engaging with conversation with Eloise.

And he simply watched.

Watched as she could bring food to her lips- only to distract somebody with a question, lowering her fork and sliding the food back onto the plate. 

For somebody so shy, she easily wove the conversation in any direction she wanted, dodging and distracting anybody that looked her way with something new; questioning Benedict about some art in the hallways, or asking Eloise about her research into Lady Whistledown.

She effortlessly deflected attention away from herself.

Her hands never stopped moving over her plate, cutting up food and moving it around and if Anthony had not been completely entranced in observing her, he rather believed that he would not have noticed that she’d eaten nothing.

Indeed, he was only spared her masterful deflection by having the appearance of being completely engrossed in his food.

She hadn’t eaten _anything._

And, really, if he’d bothered to look deeper, it would have been obvious. Her clothes seemed to fit less and less, the roundness in her cheeks that he had always been fond of disappearing bit by bit, her jawline sharpening and the circles under her eyes becoming more and more pronounced. 

He enjoyed her as she was; small and soft curves and rounded edges.

Though perhaps that was selfish of him, to feel that way. To think of her beauty as something made for his own satisfaction, even though he could not place _why_ Penelope’s appearance would or indeed _should_ be satisfying to him in the first instance.

Even so, a small part of him mourned the increasingly disappearing plumpness that she was naturally graced with.

Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Maybe she just wasn’t hungry today? Maybe she was just shedding the extra poundage of girlhood?

Somewhere, deep in his bones, Anthony knew that he was wrong. That her growing thinness had been by design. 

But he had no concrete proof- and to wit, he simply could not drag her from the table and interrogate her, nor force food between her lips himself. 

“Anthony, dear?” Violet’s question finally tore his attention away, and he looked towards his mother.

“Yes?” He responded, his mind whirling with questions for Penelope.

“I plan on taking a trip to the Modiste soon, with Eloise and Penelope, to get them clothing for the coming months.”

 _“Oh,_ Mother!” Eloise groaned, “my clothes fit perfectly fine! You already dropped all my hems, surely I do not need _more_ clothes.” Violet raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“You need new riding clothes for one thing! And new shoes, I can tell yours have been pinching at you. We can make our fabric orders early for next season, to give her time to import the fabrics from France.” She looked towards Penelope with a smile. 

“And of course, we need to get you some new clothes, dear, especially with your wardrobe being so depleted.” 

“Oh!” Penelope gasped, shaking her head emphatically. “I could _not_ take advantage of you like that-” her eyes turned to Anthony, wide and beseeching. “You’ve already done so _much_ for me. Please, I cannot take any of your money to fritter away on clothing.”

“Nonsense,” Anthony countered, leaning back in his chair. Penelope’s eyes flashed for a moment, a lance of white-hot fire behind her blue eyes. 

“I insist. I have plenty of clothes already.” 

“And _I_ insist that you need more.” Penelope huffed slightly, dropping all pretenses of politeness and propriety. 

“No, the family coffers are open for a new wardrobe for the both of you. Anything and everything they could possibly need, Mother.”

Eloise groaned again, her head falling back as she silently swore at the ceiling. 

“I simply must refuse, Anthony.” Penelope sighed. Anthony raised an eyebrow at her challengingly. 

He took no small amount of _pleasure_ as he saw the same white-hot fire simmering behind her eyes again. 

“I simply must insist, _Penelope._ ” He responded, leaning forward in his chair. 

“I cannot take advantage of the _kindness_ you have all already shown me,” Penelope responded, smiling saccharinely, fury boiling in her blood and building in her bones. 

The look she gave him- it reminded him of the night before- the passion that had been ignited within her as she verbally lay into him.

He wanted to see it again. So he responded, with an indolent smirk,

"It's not taking advantage if I offer... and don't think you aught to be _refusing_ my self proclaimed kindness, do you?"

The air grew thick and tense around the pair as Penelope kept trying to reject his offer, and as Anthony kept refusing _her_ refusal. Even Gregory and Hyacinth stopped their bickering, both worried and enraptured as the pair, now stood up from their seats, drew closer together, leaning over the table.

“I _will not_ allow you to make that decision for me-” Penelope started.

“And _I_ will not allow you to continue wearing ill-fitting, old clothing-”

“You won’t _allow_ me? Are you going to force me into them, _my Lord?”_

“If that’s what it takes to get you to _stop arguing with me,_ then I might!”

“Fancying your chances at taking liberties, brother? I think Miss Penelope is much too much of a lady to do that,” Benedict quipped, though he had been immediately silenced by their twin glares, throwing his hands up in the air in surrender. 

He glanced towards Eloise, who was struggling to contain both her fascination and amusement, and wiggled his eyebrows salaciously.

She snorted.

 _“Enough.”_ Violet hissed. 

A hush as silence fell, and Penelope and Anthony, chests heaving in unison, snapped their heads towards the Bridgerton matriarch. She sat calmly in her chair, but the look on her face caused the two to fall back into their seats hastily. 

“I’m so sorry, my Lady!” Penelope started stammering, her cheeks flooded and bright red. Anthony wanted to laugh victoriously, but the look Violet slanted towards him quelled any notion of laughter.

“Penelope.” Violet began, “whilst I would be very disappointed _indeed_ if my son were to take liberties on your person to force you into new clothing, you simply _need_ them.”

Anthony flushed as Violet glared at her eldest son once more, his eyes darting to his empty plate.

“But I-” Violet held up her hand.

“Surely, you do not want to make the family look bad by refusing my offer?” She asked, taking a sip of her tea. “There is no doubt in my mind that the entire ‘Ton would think us cruel to keep you in ill-fitting clothing, that, though lovely, is much too plain for an official Bridgerton ward.” 

“I-” Penelope stammered, all the fire having gone out of her.

“Furthermore, your clothes are a little worse for wear, dear.” Violet continued, with a pointed look at the scraggly ends of Penelope’s sleeves, falling apart from over-usage. Penelope blushed deeply. 

“I suppose...but I truly can’t have you spending so much on me!” Penelope protested weakly.

“Well then, I can agree to not spending a fortune- I would detest frittering money away. We shall spend precisely what is necessary, nothing less and nothing more, yes?” She asked, though it was clearly _not_ a question at all. Penelope nodded feebly, her eyes darting towards Anthony.

He looked smug and satisfied, his eyes glittering and he raised a challenging ‘brow towards her, smirk firmly in place.

 _Arrogant bastard._ Penelope thought to herself, biting back a huff of indignation.

Penelope had an image in her mind of _smacking_ the self-righteousness out of him, the smug, self-satisfied smirk falling off his face.

 _Yes,_ she thought, she ought to smack it off of him.

Her fists clenched, her nails digging sharply into the palms of her hands.

“Now, _son,_ ” Violet said, her gaze shifting to Anthony, who looked immediately cowed and mild, shrinking under his mother’s glare.

“ _Never_ have I raised any of my sons to say such- such _ghastly_ words, to imply such _ungentlemanly_ actions in front of a lady like Miss Penelope- not only a ward of the family but a dear friend and an accomplished young lady! To imply such _liberties-_ even in the heat of the moment! What do you have to say for yourself?” She hissed, and Anthony started stammering. Benedict, unable to still his tongue any longer, sang out quietly, _“you’re in for it now.”_ Violet's gaze slid towards him icily, and he looked the other way.

Eloise’s hands clapped on her mouth to stop her from laughing, but Gregory and Hyacinth had no such impulse control, bursting into raucous giggled as Anthony stumbled and spluttered.

“Apologise.” Violet commanded simply, and Anthony, looking small and timid, turned his eyes towards Penelope, his cheeks a beetroot red. 

“I-I apologise sincerely, Penelope. I had no intentions of- of implying-”

“You’re forgiven, Anthony,” Penelope cut across. Inside, she was crowing her victory and bathing in the smugness that at least he had not been spared his mother’s ire.

But Violet was far too terrifying to be smug in front of, and Penelope rather wanted this tense atmosphere to dissipate. 

It may not have been a smack to the face, but it was good enough for Penelope.

For now, at least.

Violet clapped her hands together, smiling brightly.

“Wonderful! We’ll head to the Modiste in an hour, then.” She grinned, looking rather pleased in herself.

Her smug look was familiar.

_Oh, Heavens._

In that moment, Penelope had not only realised where Anthony got that extremely smack-able smug look from, but also that she had played right into the Dowager Bridgertons hands. 

A masterfully woven web, looking at it objectively.

Get Penelope and Anthony to argue about cost until they were insulting one another, then cut across the tension looking calm and considerate and rational to get _exactly_ what you want.

Make concessions that look like negotiation, even if you had already accounted for it.

All while getting the Lord of the house to cower and concede to your demands.

It was so cleverly done, that Penelope almost wanted to applause.

A masterful manipulation, indeed.

 _Violet Bridgerton, I think I should desire to be like you when I am older._ Penelope thought to herself.

Yes; if she grew up to be anything as clever and controlled as Violet Bridgerton, Penelope would be more than pleased in herself. 

“Eloise, we’ll have you fully re-fitted whilst we’re there, to make sure everything is up to date.” She continued airily, taking another pull from her cup of tea. 

Eloise groaned.

 _“Mother!”_ She whined, looking towards the matriarch with wide, pleading eyes. “But that takes _so long!”_

Violet raised an eyebrow.

Eloise shut up.


	5. A Beacon of Red (in an Ocean of Blue)

Madame Genevieve Delacroix’s  _ modiste _ was one of the highest regarded in London; not just for the wonderful fabrics that she sourced from around the globe (particularly France) but also for her supreme skills as a seamstress. Madame Delacroix was a testament to a woman making her own way in the world, if she had the skills and wiles for it. 

For Penelope, the Modiste had been a place of terror and humiliation.

Madame Delacroix, despite her considerable skills and obvious taste, had been the woman that made all of her garishly coloured, ill-fitting clothes to each-and-every-one of Portia Featherington’s precise and tacky requirements. 

Madame Delacroix was the one who would look at her with a strange, pitying smile, whenever her mother demanded another bright frock, or a tight-lacing corset that was out of fashion, but what her mother deemed necessary to make her look smaller.

Or indeed, for a set of stays, though Portia demanded they be  _ two  _ sizes too small, crowing to Penelope about how she could shed the weight if she just  _ tried. _ How she could fit into a corset the size of an orange-and-a-half when she was younger.

How they would fit just fine, if only Penelope  _ made the effort _ for them to fit.

_ They wouldn’t be too small if you weren’t such a heifer. _ The beast growled in Penelope’s ears.

Penelope had dreaded the visit, but she had been cleverly browbeaten into it by Violet, so she put up and shut up, which is why, unlike Eloise who had complained the second they entered, she stayed quiet.

“Mama  _ please, _ I don’t need anything new! You’ve already dropped my hems-surely that’s enough-” Eloise whined, and Penelope tried to disappear by the fabrics, pretending to inspect some lace. 

“Nonsense.” Violet retorted, an arched eyebrow silencing her daughter sharpish. She made her way to an assistant, who greeted the troupe with a curtsy.

“I’d like to get Eloise re-measured for a set of day dresses and a riding habit, she’s plenty of unworn gowns.” Violet turned back to her daughter, smiling. “Once you’ve been measured, you can take your leave to the market with Mrs. Wilson, and I shall see you back at home.” Eloise crowed out a victory, accosting the assistant with such sudden eagerness to get out of the modiste as fast as possible that Penelope was afraid the assistant would run away in fear. 

Mrs Wilson curtseyed, the housekeeper following the young Bridgerton, assuring Violet that her daughter would not be allowed to run the assistant ragged in her haste.

“Penelope!” Violet called her over, and Penelope stifled a sigh as the matriarch steered her towards the back, directly towards Madame Delacroix. 

“My Lady!” Madame Delacroix curtseyed deeply. “I am honoured to have your patronage today- what is it you wish for me to make?” Her voice- Penelope had always loved her voice, the way it curled around the words and settled in her ears, as delicate and  _ sharp _ as her needles. 

“Madame, I require a fitting for Lady Penelope here,” Violet answered, “she’ll need a wardrobe to see her at least until the start of the next season; things suitable for the countryside and the city, a set of riding clothes- a full riding habit -and new underthings.”

Genevieve's eyes widened the slightest amount, a sheen of curiosity glazing over her eyes for a moment before she smiled genially. 

“Oui Madame, I can certainly make that possible.” She ushered Penelope into the back, behind a screen to undress down to her chemise, layers falling off piece-by-piece. 

Even her stays were removed as she had to be refitted for those, too.

_ Disgustinguglyfoulfat _ the beast sniped at her, the words ringing around her skull in a chanting hiss, the words stretching and squishing together into an incoherent babble, scratching against her mind, and Penelope took a deep, settling breath as she tried to unwind the ball in her stomach, her hands moving to scrub the tears away from her eyes before they had the opportunity to spill down her cheeks.

Her tears would find no purchase here; not until she was ensconced in her room, able to succumb in isolation to the beast inside of her.

Her hands fisted, nails digging into her skin, the sharp, familiar sting allowing Penelope to take several slow, deep breaths. She pushed the thoughts away, into the back of her mind to dwell on later. 

Before she knew it, she was in front of the mirror being measured, inch by horrifying inch.

Madame Delacroix’s fingers, sharp and thin, skated around her waist, her hips, her arms. Each and every possible measurement taken three times over,  _ just  _ to be sure.

“You have gotten thinner since the last time I fitted you, Mademoiselle.” Genevieve commented neutrally, her voice measured in the way that people with questions they wanted to ask endeavoured to sound so it didn’t  _ seem  _ like they had questions to ask. 

Penelope shrugged, her hands falling to her stomach, relieved that Violet had gone to check on Eloise and start looking at trims and fabrics. 

She felt  _ exposed. _ Vulnerable.

She thought of the stars; of the night sky stretching above her, endless and fathomless. 

Of the chill of the air, causing her skin to break out in goose pimples, her spine tingling, the taste of alcohol on her lips.    
Of the wooden dock under her feet.

Of water.

Penelope hastily shoved the thoughts away, and she cleared her throat, her eyes going to Madame Delacroix’s for just a moment.

“I suppose Mama’s...lessons have finally begun to stick.” She replied airily, a hand moving to absently push an errant curl behind her ear.

Lessons they were not. Snide comments and cruel remarks, they most certainly were.

And maybe, maybe they did begin to stick. 

The well of Penelope’s stomach began to howl, and she pinched herself sharply, the sting distracting her body well enough to focus its attention elsewhere.

_ Not well enough. Look at you. _ The beast purred. 

Genevieve's eyes met hers in the reflection of the mirror, and she smiled kindly. 

“You didn’t need  _ lessons, _ oui? You are beautiful as you are, always have been.” Penelope couldn’t see the pity in her eyes, but it had to be there.

She had never been beautiful.

“I’ll never be able to fit my waist into a corset the size of an orange and a half.” Penelope muttered, more to herself, but Genevieve laughed brightly. 

“Sweet girl!  _ Personne ne peut... _ Nobody can! They would faint at the prospect!” The modiste turned to make sure Penelope’s measurements had all been recorded. “Stays should be  _ comfortable,  _ yes? Not difficult to breathe in!” 

Penelope blushed brightly. Certainly, nobody aside from her and her sisters seemed to find stays and corsets so uncomfortable; perhaps there was a reason her sister had been the one to faint in front of the Queen aside from just nerves. 

Soon, but not soon enough, Madame Delacroix finished her fitting and Penelope started dressing, purposefully turning her back to the mirror. 

_ You can’t even look at yourself. Disgusting. _ The beast crooned mockingly, and Penelope’s body tensed for a moment; she pinch her stomach harshly, choking her noise of pain down with a harsh bite to her lip. The beast purred. 

Layer by layer she re-covered, and Penelope felt a shield falling around her as her body disappeared under her many layers. 

Madame Delacroix helped her with her stays and the back of her dress, and then the pair left the fitting area to look over fabrics. She had yet to see Eloise, and the housekeeper was not in sight. 

Penelope reasoned, with a definitely not-at-all hint of jealousy, that her friend had already been fitted, no doubt having rushed through the process as far as possible. 

Violet was still over by the trimmings and lace, so when Madame Delacroix piped up, Penelope allowed her attention to focus on the modiste.

“Tell me,” Madame Delacroix started, no hint of hesitation in her voice, her fingers skating over some pale pink silks. “Why is it that you came with the Bridgertons today? Your mother placed an order with me before she left, and you were not there.”

Penelope hissed, biting back a swear. Penelope’s head whipped around to the modiste, who had been eyeing up a bright pink fabric, her eyebrows furrowed in thought. 

“I won’t tolerate  _ gossip, _ being made, Madame Delacroix!” Penelope bit out, surprising both herself and the modiste with the fire in her words. 

Genevieve rolled her eyes in an unexpectedly casual move, her hands in front of her placatingly. 

“Non, non! No gossip here, Just a  _ madame’s  _ curiosity. Though it would do well to get ahead of the gossip before Lady Whistledown reports a distorted truth, yes?”

Penelope paused; perhaps there was some truth in that. Maybe a final paper from Whistledown would put rumours to bed and keep the masses sated ‘til next season?

“In that instance, I suppose you are right. One can only hope to get ahead of the gossip if one is the one to  _ make _ the gossip.” Violet cut through, appearing behind Penelope and causing the young woman to stifle a squeak of surprise. 

“My family is not ashamed of it, and neither should you be, Penelope. The only person that should be ashamed of themselves is Portia Featherington,” Violet continued, turning to Madame Delacroix. She smiled genially, but the look in her eyes reminded Penelope of why one should try their hardest to stay on Violet Bridgerton’s good side. 

She suppressed a shudder.

“Penelope has become a ward of my household, and we are sponsoring her next season. That is all there is to it.” 

Genevieve's eyes were wide, clearly not expecting such a revelation. She glanced at Penelope from the corner of her eyes. 

Penelope’s jaw was locked tense, her own eyes staring straight ahead at a bolt of silk rather than facing either Genevieve or Violet’s. Her spine had straightened, and her whole body was pulled taut. Tension roiled from her body in waves.

Nobody had said  _ disowned _ out loud. Nobody had to. The hypothetical elephant was in the room, the bull was  _ in  _ the China shop, and Genevieve could make an educated guess as to why the Bridgerton family had taken Penelope into their home.

She could have placed a bet on it.

“Well.” She flustered for a moment, unsure of her own words or a response that  _ would not _ increase the tension in the room, before admirably pulling herself together. “At least you won’t have to wear yellow again, oui?” Penelope snorted indelicately, returning Genevieve's encouraging smile. 

“Maybe you can make me something in a colour I  _ like _ .” She couldn’t help but quip, and the modiste laughed brightly. Violet was fighting back her own grin. 

Portia Featherington’s tacky taste and absolute  _ lack _ of fashion sense, especially in the case of her daughters, was perhaps the most noteworthy thing about the woman, and indeed the second fact used to identify her, shortly after  _ new money _ had been mentioned. 

“And I can drop the waistline a couple of inches,  _ non? _ Make it fall from you  _ properly. _ Why your mother insisted on raising them, I have no idea!” 

Penelope laughed brightly, a weight falling from her shoulders. Violet’s demeanor cracked, and she could not help but to flash a grin of her own.

“What colours would you like to look at?” Genevieve asked, looking between the women. Penelope floundered for a moment, spinning around to face Violet. 

She had no idea what colours to go for. 

Perhaps sensing the young woman’s nerves, Violet placed a hand on Penelope’s shoulder, gently squeezing it under her palm, grounding her to the room before she could begin to panic about fabrics and colours and cost and goodness knows what else- Penelope did indeed seem seconds away from a panic, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed red; if one were to put their hand on her chest, they would have felt her heart hammering wildly as her mind raced with questions.

Violet was also keenly aware that naturally, Penelope would try and formulate a new argument as to why she didn’t really  _ need _ clothes if she was given enough time to think about it.

“Underthings for both girls can just be the standard muslin, and we’ll take some plain coloured stays and short stays. Eloise will take her usual colours.” Violet rattled off, the modiste nodding along attentively.

“For Penelope, we’ll at least need something in blue, the family colours of course.” Violet said, and Penelope’s heart fluttered.

_ Family colours. _ Oh, that sounded too good to be real. Family colours that weren’t yellow or lurid green and over-encrusted with butterflies? It sounded a dream that she would be harshly ripped from in the morning.

She snuck her hand to her side, and she pinched her thigh. The sting, though dulled by her clothes, was still felt. Penelope’s heart felt like it could burst out of her chest with the wave of gratitude that swept through her.

Family. Colours.

The words used to fill her whole body with dread and nightmares of violent greens and pinks and yellows, too bright and too garish for her red hair and pale skin. 

Family colours this time however, felt like inclusion; like safety and belonging and  _ hope. _ Could she dare to dream of such a thing? Could she really count herself as belonging in the Bridgerton household? Wearing the family colours as if she  _ were _ a member of the family? 

She didn’t dare hope. 

“Of course! What shade would you prefer?” Madame Delacroix asked, her eyes moving to Penelope. She considered it for a long moment. The Bridgerton colour was blue, and many of the family preferred a paler blue…

“Do we have anything in a deep blue?” Penelope asked gently, wringing her hands. “ And maybe a powder blue?” 

Violet beamed brightly, “Yes! Those will look brilliant on you.” 

“ _Oui_ _mesdames_! Right this way!” She escorted the pair to a large section of fabric; shelves upon shelves spilling over with bolts of blue fabrics, from silks and wools to muslin and lace, and Penelope thought that perhaps she had never seen so much _blue_ before. Her eyes were drawn to a dark blue silk that shimmered like midnight, and she smiled brightly.

“This one I think, for a darker blue...I’m not too sure about a lighter one…” 

Violet’s hands skirted along bolts of fabrics, before resting on a powdered blue in a periwinkle. 

“This should do it,” She said, and Genevieve nodded, peering at the labels and noting them down for later, having fetched the notebook filled with Penelope’s measurements. 

“I want sets of cotton and silk dresses in both colours. And how about this wool?” She asked Penelope, her hand stretching up to a royal blue wool. Penelope looked at it, nodding. 

She had never enjoyed  _ dress shopping _ so much. 

Perhaps yellow was not the happy colour her Mama insisted it was. 

“What other colours would you like?” Madame Delacroix asked, and Penelope frowned. 

What colours  _ did  _ she like? What would suit her? 

_ Nothing would suit you, _ the beast purred, but Penelope surprised herself by brushing the beast away. No, nothing would spoil her mood. 

“Maybe a sage green? Or a dark green?” She said finally, more of a question than an answer in and of itself. Perhaps a softer green would suit her complexion, or a dark green her hair. She had frankly no idea. Madame Delacroix tapped her chin and nodded approvingly. Maybe they  _ were _ good choices for her after all? 

“I think I have the perfect greens for you  _ upstairs, _ I shall get some samples for you, oui?” She said, making her leave to start fetching fabric options. 

Violet steered Penelope towards the  _ chaise _ in the centre of the room, settling into the plush velvet of the seat.

Penelope felt exhausted, but she also felt  _ hopeful. _ At last, she was getting clothes that fit! In colours she didn’t  _ loathe! _ If not the magical Cinderella transformation, she would at least look like a citrus disaster no more.

“Are you excited for the next season?” Violet asked kindly, smoothing her skirts down before settling her hands in her lap.

Penelope shrugged, her eyes on the bolts of fabric on the shelves. The shop was bursting with fabrics, all organised by colour and then type, a veritable rainbow ready to leap off the shelves with the way they were packed in over each other. How the modiste could possibly have  _ more _ fabric hiding away upstairs Penelope couldn’t fathom.

“As excited as I can be I suppose, Lady Bridgerton.”

“Please, dear, call me Violet; and what do you mean?” Violet asked, her lips down-turned and her eyebrows furrowed slightly. Perhaps Eloise was not looking forward to it, but all Portia talked about when she was not either simpering or sniping last year was how excited her daughter’s were for the season.

“Well,” Penelope began, biting at her lip, her eyes wandering away from Violet’s face and over to some lace bolts of fabric. “I am not foolish enough to think I shall readily find a husband next season, or anytime soon at all. I shall not be surprised if it takes me several seasons. I rather think spinsterhood is more likely.” 

Violet scoffed, drawing Penelope’s eyes back towards the eldest Bridgerton. 

“Oh, pish! You have bloomed into a wonderful young woman, and I daresay that without Portia’s garish costuming you could have found yourself a suitable match in no time at all last season! You  _ will _ find a worthy husband, I am sure of it.” Violet said, her voice both comforting and stubborn in the way only a mother’s voice could be.

Penelope shrugged noncommittally.

_ No, she would sooner be a spinster, _ Penelope thought,  _ nobody would want me as their wife. _

She looked back towards the fabrics, eyes scanning over rows of fabric in blues and pinks and creams and- 

Red. 

She blinked once, then again. Her eyes focused on four bolts of fabric- silk, velvet, wool, and something sheer that Penelope could not name for neither love nor money. 

All in shades of red.

“Do you like those?” Violet asked, her eyes following Penelope’s gaze. 

The young woman nodded absently. 

_ “Mama _ always said that red was the colour of lightskirts,” Penelope murmured, unable to rid the bitter bite from her voice. 

Violet laughed brightly.

“Oh, Portia Featherington  _ would _ say so!” Penelope’s eyebrows were furrowed in confusion. Violet grinned cheekily, clasping Penelope’s hands and pulling her towards the bolts of fabric.

“As a young woman I indulged in many red clothes- my dear Edmund confessed to me that my red dresses were what drew him to me, for when every other woman wore a shade of blue, I wore red.” Violet pulled a part of the silk up to Penelope’s cheek, and Penelope had a vision of a bright beacon of ruby red, standing out in a sea of blue. “It never suited me as much as it would fit your complexion though, dear.” 

Penelope swallowed, her voice thick. “R-Really?”

Violet nodded. “Do you truly love the colour?” Penelope nodded, just the minutest amount, but it was enough for Violet to call out to the modiste, who hurried towards them, burdened with a bundle of green fabric samples.

“I want a set of everything in this colour- bedclothes, gowns, riding clothing. And for green…” Violet’s eyes wandered critically over the samples, holding both a sage green and deep green square up to Penelope’s cheek one at a time. She nodded. “These shades for green.” She decided, and Madame Delacroix just smiled and nodded in response, going to find her notebook to mark down the fabric tags. 

“Thank you,” Penelope murmured, and Violet smiled again. She had a lot of smiles for Penelope, she couldn’t help herself. 

“How-how  _ did  _ you fall in love?” Penelope asked, before her eyes widened. “Oh! I do apologise- I- that was  _ very _ insensitive of me, I never meant to-I-”

“Oh, nonsense!” Violet waved the young woman off. “I never talk about my late husband,” she frowned. “Not for lack of  _ wanting  _ to.”

Penelope and Violet found their seats again, waiting for the Madame Delacroix to finish up and return with a date for completion. Violet turned and clasped Penelope’s hands. 

“I think sometimes, the children don’t want to ask- they don’t want to upset me. And I think, perhaps, I did not want to cause them any more grief by telling them. But I think perhaps our story shouldn’t go untold.” She grinned then at Penelope, her eyes sparkling.

“ _ Now, _ I told you how I wore red to the Bridgerton’s ball, yes? What I  _ didn’t _ tell you…”

And in a modiste’s shop one sunny morning, two women sat, and a story was told of a love that burned brightly, and was extinguished too soon; a beacon of red in an ocean of blue.


	6. A Revolutionary and her General (smoking in the dappled sun)

He was thinking of her again.

When was he  _ not  _ thinking of her, these days?

She danced in his waking hours and into his nights, confusing thoughts of red hair and wild eyes and water and moonlight and he could do nothing but to  _ think _ of her, of trying to unscramble the inescapable mystery of the woman that he had taken into his home.

Miss Penelope not-quite-Featherington-anymore. 

When was the last time he had gone out for a night on the town? Gotten pissed before sinking himself into a willing woman, trying to take his mind off of  _ another _ woman, who once cried out his name in ecstasy. Whom he snuck secret kisses and cries of pleasure with at any possible moment?

His heart  _ ached  _ at the thought of  _ her. _ It ached every day; and yet he hadn’t given in to his basest desires in a vein effort to forget since…

Since a dock, a drowning woman, and an endless starry sky turned his world upside down.

Perhaps it was a good thing, that he was so consumed in the inexplicable desire to surround himself in the mystery of Penelope; perhaps it would provide the distraction he desperately sought; perhaps his sudden lack of  _ desire _ for meaningless entanglements or indeed  _ love _ in the awakening of his curiosity would allow him to look for a Viscountess without the blinders of lust and the trap of love. Allow him to focus on finding a friendly companion that would represent the family well and raise the heirs he needed to have. 

He could hope for a  _ friend, _ he would allow himself that much.

_...In a Viscount’s office, on opposite ends of the desk, two broken, wretched, broken beings sat, holding hands... _

Gods...that night.

His heart stuttered at the thought.

He was sitting in the same chair as that night. How could he not think of it, when the walls had absorbed each broken stumbling confession whispered between them?

Had he ever been so... vulnerable before?

How had she pulled him apart so easily? Crawled into the depths of his soul?

He hadn’t  _ thought _ , much less spoken, some of the truths he had shared with her aloud. Some of the weaknesses.

How had she been able to draw honesty from him; honesty he had not given himself? 

Anthony’s hand felt hot; he could remember how it felt when Penelope reached across the desk, tracing patterns with her fingers.

How they sat in the dark, together and alone at the same time, hands inexplicably entwined. 

Anthony clenched his fist.

“I’ll protect you and your family from any bees.” He whispered aloud, running a hand through his hair. She had whispered those words in the dark, and he could not see her face, but Anthony  _ knew _ she meant it to the very bones of her being. 

_ I’ll show you how to love the taste of honey again...if you’ll let me. _

How had she been so earnest? How could she so truly promise him, a stranger in all but the vaguest of associations, something so dear to him, something that meant so much to him, without even blinking? Without faltering? 

They weren’t even  _ friends, _ were they? Anthony was not sure. He didn’t think so. His closest friend was Simon, and they had never promised each other anything of the sort. He and Penelope barely knew each other, certainly not enough to be friends.

And yet he had been more vulnerable and open with her, in his office in the dark, than he had even been with himself. 

There was no rationale, no logic that Anthony could apply to what happened that night to make sense with the  _ lack _ of a relationship between them. Perhaps if Penelope had promised Eloise, he would understand. Or even Colin, he could understand that. But him? 

It made no sense at all. 

God above, how had the world blessed  _ Portia Featherington, _ the most unbearable of harpies, with somebody as sweet and kind and wonderful as Penelope? How had anybody been able to stand by as she and her eldest daughters tore the young woman down time and time again, until she had almost-

Anthony’s chest tightened. He could not find it within himself to complete that thought.

Penelope was  _ good, _ and  _ kind, _ and damn it all, if somebody like Penelope could be so tortured by the world, was there any hope for the rest of them?

He had more demons than most, hiding in the dark, in the quiet. 

Was there any hope for  _ him? _

Did he deserve to hope?

He was not so sure.

Anthony’s thoughts turned to the other morning. 

He had seen her eat since then, thank goodness, but something inside his bones screamed at him to be concerned; something that didn’t quite believe his self-assurances that perhaps Penelope just was not all that hungry at breakfast three days ago. 

He could not just confront her about that, however. It was _one_ _time,_ surely that meant nothing?

His stomach swirled. 

And then, there was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Anthony called, straightening himself up. His mother popped her head round the door, smiling tightly before she entered, shutting the door behind her. Her body was tense and her eyes red.

“Mother? What’s wrong?” Anthony asked, standing and moving around his desk, his hands moving to steady her at the elbows. Her hand rested on Anthony’s chest for a moment, tapping it gently, and he released her, shepherding her into the chair.

“I have some...concerns. Concerns I have had for a few days. I-I need to-” Violet sniffed, and Anthony pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to her, his mind racing with questions and concerns, held back only by carefully controlled patience. 

“Mother?” He asked, and she took the 'kerchief with a grateful, watery smile, dabbing at her eyes. 

“It’s about Penelope.” She said shortly, and Anthony’s mind screeched to a halt.

“What about her? Is something wrong?” He asked, trying to keep his calm. Violet took a deep breath.

“I am worried about her...I’ve been worried since the trip to the modiste’s…”

“What on Earth for?” Anthony asked, and Violet lowered the handkerchief, her hands clasped together in her lap. 

“I am at a loss of what to do...I have never seen anybody look at their own figure with such disgust...or talk about herself so poorly...and that _blasted_ _harpy_ of a mother! I know many young women go through a period of time where they think themselves an ugly duckling, but Penelope seems to believe herself to be a spinster in the making- you should have _heard_ her, Anthony!” Violet cried out, her hand fisted on her heart. 

“She said as much, and the way she said it…” A sob wracked through Violet’s body, and Anthony found himself on his knees in front of his mother, holding her close as she cried for a girl that she already saw as her own daughter. Cried for the pain that she could not begin to fathom, for the self-loathing that she could see roiling off of Penelope whenever she spoke or even looked at herself.

He soothed his mother silently, allowing her to swear about Portia Featherington and cry for Penelope, his own mind flooded with new questions and worries.

Violet finally quietened, and he pulled back slowly.

“Mother…” He started, the words tip on his tongue. Violet looked at him, her eyes red and cheeks tear-stained.

“I saw something...I know not if it is truly something to be concerned about, but I think I should seek your counsel on the matter.”

“Yes?” Violet encouraged. Anthony wrestled with himself. 

“I think that perhaps Penelope has purposefully been avoiding food.”

“E-Excuse me?” Violet stammered, sitting back in her chair, gazing at him with wide eyes. Anthony ran a hand through his hair and sighed, standing up and moving back around the desk to slump in his chair. 

“Before your trip to the modiste, I observed Miss Penelope at breakfast. She did not eat a bite, though she made a convincing show of it.” He started, his voice measured and controlled. 

“Well we must do something!” Violet insisted, and Anthony sighed again.

Penelope made him sigh a lot, these days.

“We cannot.” 

“Why ever not?” Violet asked.

“Because,” Anthony started, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know not whether it is a purposeful habit- though the ease with which she concealed her lack of appetite suggests it- or if she simply did not feel hungry yet wanted to avoid the impoliteness of refusing to break fast with the family.” Anthony leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his hands moving to the back of his head. 

“If either of us confront her, without proof that there is a pattern to it- she may not tell us anything. If there is not a problem, we will immediately lose her trust. If there is a problem, if she is purposefully  _ starving _ herself and we confront her with that without proof, she could get angry and lash out. She would close herself off to us, and we would again lose her trust. She would not tell us anything.” 

“We cannot sit by and do nothing!” Violet pleaded, and Anthony wanted to shout, but he took a deep breath and counted to ten.

“We will  _ not _ be doing nothing,” he endeavoured to placate his mother as much as possible. “We will simply have to observe, and ensure we can encourage her to eat often, and perhaps we will find proof either way by doing so; at which point, we will talk to her and take it from there.” Anthony leant back in his chair. 

“I feel such a  _ protectiveness _ for Penelope, I must confess,” Violet said, “I feel as much care for her as I do all of you; as if I grew her from my own womb, but I don’t know how to  _ fix _ all the pain and heartache she has had wrought upon her.”

Anthony shook his head, and he ran a hand through his hair again. 

“I don’t know if we  _ can _ fix her heartaches, Mother,” he confessed, “I think perhaps all we can do is be there, and support her, until she knows that she deserves to fix herself, until she knows that she  _ can _ fix herself.”

***

Dappled sunlight filtered through the trees surrounding Benedict from where he sat, languidly swinging back and forth, his back to the house lest his Mother come outside and find him smoking, despite the fact that the smell would tip her off much faster than the sight of a cigarette ever could, when a soft shadow fell over him.

Penelope sat silently on the swing beside him, and he offered no words of his own, and for just a moment, the only noise was the creaking of wood and rope, and birdsong.

He sighed.

“Please don’t tell Mother I’ve been out here smoking, she’ll skin me alive.” He asked, and to his shock, Penelope laughed brightly. 

“I won’t-” she said, still giggling, “but only if you’ll be kind enough to share.” 

He goggled.

“Really?” He asked, and she rolled her eyes, still smiling at him. 

“Of course! My silence is not to be given but bought.” He grinned suddenly, his hands going to the cigarettes in his pocket, holding them out towards her. 

“Oh, I had no idea  _ you _ smoked, Penelope.” She plucked the box from his hand, sliding a cigarette between her lips and striking the match deftly, and soon enough a second plume of smoke filled the air.

“Where do you think Eloise got it from?” She asked impishly, “it certainly was not from you or your brothers- why, did you think me incapable of smoking?” She raised an eyebrow. 

“Perhaps just unlikely,” Benedict answered, laughing more out of shock and surprise than anything else.

Penelope,  _ smoking. _

“It certainly is not a regular indulgence for me,” Penelope admitted, “and certainly not the vice it seems to be for you and Eloise, but I will have one once in a blue moon.” 

A comfortable silence fell between them, and Benedict took a moment to look at the young woman sitting next to him, smoking and slowly swinging. 

She seemed surprisingly at ease, but perhaps it was the fact that her hair was not tightly coiffed and coiled but falling loose around her shoulders, or the way that her dress was not a pus-like yellow but a soft, dusty rose colour. 

Indeed, she had never been so self-confident around him before; she was typically the picture of amenable and mild, but she seemed utterly at ease in this moment.

Her eyes slid sideways to meet him, and she grinned around her cigarette, inhaling deeply. 

“So, what has been consuming your mind?” Penelope asked straightforwardly, causing Benedict’s mind to stumble again. 

“What-whatever do you mean?” He asked, his brow furrowed deeply. What on Earth was she talking about?

“You, a well-regarded man, an  _ artist _ who is known for flirting with women at any hour, is not doing precisely that but instead, you are here, sitting on a swing smoking and brooding.” She stated. Benedict spluttered.

“ _ I am not brooding!” _ He crowed, “and I don’t flirt at all hours of the day!” 

Penelope raised an eyebrow. 

“...Well...Perhaps,  _ maybe  _ you have a point. A small, minute point.” Benedict huffed, and Penelope smirked. 

When had Penelope gotten so  _ smug? _ Benedict wondered. 

That was  _ his _ thing. 

“So?” Penelope probed, twisting slightly in her swing to face Benedict more fully. He took one last drag from his cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs as he stamped the cigarette out beneath his shoe, before exhaling heavily, the taste lingering on his tongue and in the back of his throat. 

“I do not know,” he said finally, and Penelope merely rolled her eyes. 

“You  _ do _ know, deep down.” She insisted, and he pouted. “Think, really  _ think _ about it. What has you in turmoil?” She asked, and he thought for a moment.

Oh.

_ Oh, Penelope, you are assuredly a sneaky genius  _ Benedict thought, as unbidden fears and stresses that he had longed tried to bury and bottle clawed their way up from the recesses of his mind. 

“I feel...stifled.” He spat out finally. Penelope said nothing, she just looked at him with an earnest gaze and yet he felt compelled to elaborate, the words pulling from his mouth and forming truths in the air that he had never even  _ thought _ of before.

“My art...I feel as if I am going nowhere,” Benedict started, haltingly. “I feel like it is a child’s dream that perhaps I should bury...that I should perhaps become a  _ respectable gentleman. _ ” 

“But you love your art.” Penelope stated simply, swinging slightly.

“I have had...many dalliances, many paramours. I have done many rakish, roguish things in my youth.”

“If your youth was last week, that is.” Penelope quipped, her eyes sparkling, and Benedict could not help but bark out a laugh at her cheek and quick retort.

“Yes, well, in any case, I think Mother would very much like for me to hang it all up and settle down.”

“But you don’t want to.” She stated again, and Benedict let out a deep sigh. 

“I am a second child- I have been afforded a lot of freedoms that Anthony, as heir, has not...yet still I feel- well,” Benedict murmured, “I suppose I feel not good  _ enough. _ ”

“It must feel suffocating,” Penelope said, looking at him with a soft smile and gentle look that said more than she did.

A look that said  _ I understand. _

A look that said  _ I have felt the same, _ and Benedict found himself taken aback by how easily she had pulled these secrets out of him.  _ Poor Anthony won’t know what hit him _ , he thought to himself as he looked upon the young woman, her own cigarette being crushed under her feet and the last of the smoke dissipating in the gentle breeze.

“I never felt good enough,” Penelope confessed in the comfortable silence that had grown between them, “not for my mother, nor the family name- though I suppose now I do not have a family name to speak of, do I?” She said, a breathy laugh escaping her lips, and Benedict thought that perhaps he had never seen anybody look so  _ lonely _ and yet free all at once.

“And now?” He asked, but she did not answer him; instead Penelope shrugged, her gaze shifting out to the gardens. 

His heart ached for the young woman, she truly did not think of herself with any measure of kindness, did she? Benedict felt rather like he did whenever Hyacinth cried over a skinned knee, or when Eloise was ill one winter as a small child and left the whole house bereft with worry. 

“Sometimes that feeling is suffocating. The feeling of being worthless, of not being enough,” Penelope said, her voice carrying in the air. “But you must not let it consume you. You must not let it take root inside of you.”

“Why not?” He asked her, and she turned back to him, smiling grimly.

“Or else, I rather think you might become acutely aware of what led me to those docks that night.” 

He could not respond; could not form the words on his tongue to describe the astonishment that crashed through him at Penelope’s frank confession. She carried on speaking, however, and Benedict had to force himself to focus on her words.

“You are lucky, for so many reasons.” 

Benedict scoffed. “I know, I’ve heard it all from Eloise, I am privileged, I am a  _ man, _ I can do what I want-”

“You are  _ loved, _ you are surrounded by love and have been every day of your life,” She interrupted him. “You and I both come from families with privilege, yes, and you  _ do  _ have more freedom than most. Maybe you are not an heir, but you also do not have the burdens of one- look at you and Anthony- you have been  _ allowed _ to explore the arts, and you would squander the opportunity?” She asked, her eyebrow raised. He shrank under her slightly.

“Perhaps you feel stifled, but you at least have the power to change it. You  _ can _ do what you want in this world, which is a sight more than the rest of us.”

He couldn’t help it- he could not help but to laugh, a short, bitter barking sound. Benedict ran a hand through his hair, gripping the wood of the swing hard under his hands. 

“I can only do what I want if it is what everybody  _ else _ wants. I may not have the duties of an heir or Viscount like Anthony, but I have to be prepared to step in at any moment, and the idea of filling his shoes, of there ever being a reason  _ to _ fill his shoes, terrifies me. Mother looks at me with disappointment for every late night or early morn; I know she wants me to settle down with a proper job and a proper wife but I-” He stopped himself, breathing harshly, his eyes screwed up tight; a soft, small hand rested on his shoulder, and Benedict opened his eyes to see Penelope, stretching across her swing to rest her hand on his shoulder.

His hand moved up to clasp hers, and she squeezed his shoulder lightly before letting her hand fall back down beside her. 

“You do not want that.” She stated; a fact rather than a question, but he answered her anyway with a shake of his head. 

“No. Not yet, anyway. It is pathetic of me to run from my duty, from my responsibility to my family. I  _ know _ it is. And yet I am a coward despite that.” 

Penelope shocked him again; this time by rolling her eyes. She grinned at him cheekily. 

“You are still young, yet! And a coward?” She snorted, kicking her feet out in the air, “I rather believe that it is an act of bravery to shirk duty for the sake of happiness, especially to risk a wrath as virulent as your mother’s.” 

He laughed brightly, grinning back at her, “Mother’s anger is truly a terrifying sight to behold, I think the Gods of Olympus would not dare to anger her for fear of being smote where they stood.” 

“You have time, Benedict. Time that many are not blessed with. Time to figure out the kind of man you want to be, time to figure out  _ how _ you will fulfill both yourself and your duty; it is possible to do both if you believe you can. Do not waste it.” 

Benedict sobered.

“I think I am scared... I confess, I think I worry that perhaps I will do the wrong thing no matter what I choose.”

“What is done and what should be done,” Penelope murmured, “is not always the same thing. And after all, history was not made by those afraid of doing the wrong thing, was it?” 

“Why, Penelope, are you planning on becoming a revolutionary?” He asked her, smirking. 

Penelope grinned impishly up at him, her eyes bright in the glow of the dappled sun. 

“If I were,” she wheedled, her voice rising in pitch, raising a challenging eyebrow towards him, “would you be my general?” 

Benedict sprang up off the swing, and mustered as pompous an air as he could. He swept into a low bow, spurred on by Penelope’s giggles.

“Lady Penelope, fair rebel and revolutionary!” He crowed, his hand clasping his chest, “I shall proudly ride into battle on my trusted steed and wage war as the lady’s most loyal general of them all!” 

Their eyes met, and with barely restrained laughter, Penelope stood up from the swing, holding her hand aloft as if she were holding a sword; one knee balanced unsteadily on the swing in a parody of the many daubed portraits of generals Benedict had seen skied in galleries. 

“Then to battle we shall go, dear general!” She cried out, twisting her hand in a flourish, “the revolution is upon us!” 

His laughter joined hers, and he pretended to brandish his own sword from its invisible scabbard. 

“To battle!” He cried, leaping to try and jump onto the swing- but his foot caught the edge, and the world spun, and instead of landing on the swing Benedict fell with a sharp shout and a loud  _ thump _ into the dirt.

He could hear Penelope struggling to breathe in between giggles as she tried to regain her composure. 

“Oh- Benedict-” She gasped, still giggling, “are-are you i-inj-injured?” She struggled, and with a hearty chuckle he rolled over in the dirt to look at her. 

Penelope’s face was bright red, and she was clutching at her sides desperately as she giggled and wheezed, half-sat on her own swing to support her. 

“I have been perilously injured in the line of duty!” He crowed out, his hand moving to his forehead and fake swooning.

“Oh dear!” Penelope cried, still laughing, “you shall be given the highest honour a fallen soldier may have!” 

“I better!” He cried out, making no move to get up from the ground. The pair fell into giggles again, but it took less time for Penelope to contain herself. Her cheeks still glowed a vibrant red, and her ribs ached something fierce. 

“Oh, I think I sorely wish I had grown up with a brother like you,” She confessed, and he smiled even wider, something warm and bright settling in his chest. Something that reminded him of  _ family. _

“Well, now you  _ do _ have a brother like me,” He said.

“Well-if-if you’d like, of course,” he stumbled hurriedly, sitting up and leaning back on his hands, his own cheeks flushed from the awkwardness. 

To his relief, Penelope beamed widely at him, and she seemed to  _ shine _ in the light, it having turned her bright hair into a soft halo of gold and copper fuzz falling in curls around her face. 

_ Anthony will not know what hit him, _ Benedict thought for the second time that day as Penelope offered a hand to him. He grasped it, and she pulled him up with a surprising show of strength. He dusted himself off, and Penelope wasted no time in looping her arm around his own. 

“I would be honoured, if only you are willing to put up with a sister like myself.” She answered him.

Benedict laughed again, shaking his head. 

“You are already my favourite sibling.” 

“No, that is Hyacinth. She’s everybody’s favourite, and rightly so.” Penelope retorted, and the pair shared a grin as he pretended to ponder, slowly starting to make their way back to the house. 

“Hmm, I suppose you are right after all,  _ sister dear. _ ” He teased, and she rolled her eyes.

“Your Mother better not find out that we were outside smoking.” She said, and he raised his brow. 

“Oh? And what will you do if she does?” He asked, and she smirked at him impishly.

“Why, blame you of course,  _ brother dear. _ ” 

“Oi!” 

Penelope laughed spiritedly at Benedict’s cry.

They left the gardens, and the swings that sat still in the dappled light. The scent of smoke had long been carried away, and as they left, the secrets they had shared dissipated in the gentle breeze, now simply ghosts on the wind. 


	7. One, Twice, Thrice (Lavender, Chamomile and Honey)

_Dearest Anthony,_ _  
__We awaited your correspondence eagerly, and are glad to have finally received it. Your doubts are understandable, though you need not have hesitated nor tarried so long in contacting us._

_ Rest assured that we are just as excited to see you and the rest of the family here in Clyvedon Castle with us, and that includes the presence of your new ward.  _ _   
_ _ We already consider her family, just like we do with all of you. As long as she is comfortable with the arrangement, our doors are open to Penelope and we welcome her with open hearts.  _ _   
_ _ (Daphne in particular is looking forward to seeing the young woman again and getting to know her without the short leash of her mother attached.) _

_ If it is agreeable to you, we would happily house you at Clyvedon two weeks’ hence. Please let us know as soon as possible so we can start making arrangements.  _

_ We both miss you all dearly, and we cannot wait to meet Miss Penelope again, properly. _

_ With all our love and anticipation, _

_ Your Family, _

_ Simon and Daphne Hastings.  _

  
  


Anthony’s lips started to smile of their own accord, and he read back over the letter. He was sure that Penelope would agree to come with them-but perhaps it would be best to ask her. Anthony headed straight for Penelope’s room, knocking two short raps upon the door. 

“Come in,” Penelope called, her voice faint through the wood, and Anthony strode in purposefully. Penelope sat at the windowsill, notebook in one hand and other writing furiously, her pencil dashing across the page with zeal. He took a moment to look at her in the soft sunlight, illuminated in a warm glow, her curly hair loose down her back. 

“What are you writing?” Anthony asked, moving to rest in one of the chairs near her, “something salacious?” He smirked, pitching a forward and making a grab for the book. 

“Excuse you!” She laughed, closing the notebook and moving her arm out of his way, “I do believe that it is none of your business!”

He grinned at her, then dived for the notebook again- but Penelope had seen it coming. She dodged him with surprising agility, shoving him into the windowsill with her hand and standing up, her cheeks flushed. 

“Anthony Bridgerton!” She hissed, glaring at him, but her lips could not help but to twitch up into a small smile, and her eyes glittered cheekily. His face mirrored hers, and he held his hands up in surrender. 

“Fine, fine,” he conceded eventually, “I shall allow you this secret, Miss Penelope,  _ for now. _ ” He grinned at her again. “I shall uncover it eventually- in fact, I believe that you shall tell me  _ yourself _ ,” he winked at her, and Penelope forced back her blush, instead rolling her eyes and moving to her bedside, tucking the notebook and pencil into the drawer of the bedside table. She turned back to Anthony, who was now lounging languidly on the windowsill.

“So,” she started, her hands on her hips, “what was the purpose of your visit? Aside from accosting me?” She asked, her eyebrow raised. 

“Oh, I almost forgot-” Anthony exclaimed, startling upright and tucking his hand into his jacket, brandishing a letter. 

“I just received word from Daphne and Simon,” Anthony stated, and Penelope smiled in befuddlement. 

“Oh! That is...nice?” She asked, and it was Anthony’s turn to roll his eyes, grabbing her hand and pressing the letter into her palm. She read it, slowly, her lips mouthing along with the words, and Anthony did all he could not to leap at her and ask whether or not she was joining them. 

Penelope blinked, her eyes unfocused. 

She blinked again, and read the letter once more. 

Anthony could not contain himself any longer.

“Well?” He asked, and she looked at him bemusedly.

“Well what?” She responded, her eyes scanning the letter for a third time. 

Anthony rolled his eyes again, taking ahold of Penelope’s hands in his, bringing the letter down between them and forcing her eyes to his.

“Will you come with us?” He asked, watching attentively as Penelope worried her lip between her teeth. Her eyes darted between the letter and him. 

“I…” Penelope trailed, pulling her hands from his. “I would not want to be an imposition.” She started finally, smiling at him apologetically. 

“You  _ would never _ be an imposition,” Anthony responded, huffing slightly at the woman. “Daphne and Simon said so themselves! Penelope, they would be delighted to host you. You are part of us now,” he said, “even if you do not wish to be.” Anthony added, winking at her and smirking.

His efforts were rewarded with a short, breathy laugh, but she did not respond. 

_ “Please, Penelope,” _ Anthony begged, taking hold of her hands again, this time by the wrists, bringing them to lay her palms flat on his chest, and though his expression was forlorn his eyes sparkled with a mischief she had seen more on Benedict and Eloise than she ever had Anthony. 

“Please do come with us, they want to know you as  _ you, _ not as a Featherington. And I rather think I shall sink into the bottle if I have to spend the whole journey alone with only my demons to comfort me.”

“Do you not have Eloise and Benedict?” Penelope asked, biting back a chuckle, “will they not be with you, keeping you company?” 

“They are exactly the demons I am referencing,” Anthony said smartly, and Penelope could not help but to laugh brightly, shaking her head. She tapped him twice on the chest and he released her, and Penelope sat back on her windowsill, pretending to ponder.

“I do not know…” she trailed again, the corner of her lips quirking upwards, and Anthony ran a hand through his hair, gazing at her rather like a small animal begging for food.

She caved in faster than she would ever admit, to herself  _ or _ anybody else.

“Stop!” She laughed, shaking her head. “Very well! I shall go with you to Clyvedon, if only to spare you the torment of your brother and sister, and to spare  _ me _ the torment of you looking at me like a starving pup!” 

His beaming smile was blinding, and Penelope thought it rather made him look much younger than the serious expression he usually wore. 

It suited him, and Penelope wanted nothing more but to see him smile like that more often. 

He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles.

“You have saved me a most torturous journey indeed,” Anthony said, and he kissed her knuckles again, “I shall take my leave and send off my response at once, good day, Penelope.” He beamed at her again. 

Then, as suddenly as he appeared in her doorway, he was gone, and Penelope could do naught but to raise a shaking hand to her chest, breathless despite herself and completely confused as to why her heart was thrumming so erratically in her chest.

***

Two weeks had passed in a flurry of action and excitement, and as the day drew closer, each member of the family was taken by the same sense of anticipation and eagerness to be reunited with Daphne and Simon once more. Even Penelope found herself somewhat excited, though the emotion warred in her, filling her one moment with enthusiasm and the next with dread. 

Penelope and Eloise’s new clothes had been collected from the modiste’s and promptly packed away the night before, and in the wee hours of the morning, before the first rays of sunlight had crested over the horizon, the Bridgerton clan had bundled into their carriages, readying themselves to leave Grosvenor Square with the hopes to arrive at Clyvedon Castle before the evening. 

Violet would be with Gregory and Hyacinth, not willing (or perhaps not trusting) either of them to not get in trouble out of her sight. 

Penelope did not want to consider what type of trouble they could  _ possibly _ get into in a moving carriage; the two were hellions in their own rights, and a simple thing like rapidly moving carriages would not cause them to hesitate for a moment. Perhaps it was wise of Violet to keep them under her watchful gaze and long-perfected glares.

“Shove over!” Eloise hissed, shoving Benedict in the shoulder as she stepped into the carriage. He rolled his eyes, shoving her back even as he slid further into the carriage to make room for her.

_ On the other hand, _ Penelope thought, even as Anthony offered his hand to help her clamber in,  _ perhaps she simply wanted peace that she would never have gotten from Eloise or Benedict.  _

The pair were still bickering, and Anthony rolled his eyes at Penelope as he tapped the roof with his cane, and Penelope stifled a smile as the carriage lurched into life

The journey was long, and though everybody had started off eager to chat and while away the hours (or in Eloise and Benedict’s cases, eager to argue with each other), it was not long before everybody had fallen into their own tasks, conversing sparsely as they got on with their own hobbies, the excitement of the journey having made way by the lingering tiredness from the early start; Benedict with his drawing, Eloise reading the Whistledown papers she had collected, trying to find any clues as to the mysterious figure, Penelope writing in the notebook that Anthony desperately wanted to read, and Anthony himself reading lightly, though he kept glancing at Penelope every so often.

The sunlight had started to peak out as they left the city, soft ribbons of gold flooding the carriage, and Anthony chanced another look at Penelope. 

Her hair, loosely tied back, flowed around her in a golden orange glow, and Anthony could see the sunlight dance between her curls. He could do naught but smile as he saw it. She turned her head, looking at him quizzically, and he smiled at her sheepishly. Penelope returned it with a gentle smile of her own. 

It was one of Penelope’s rarer smiles; one that reached her eyes, that felt real and not performative, and Anthony wanted to see it again.

Nevertheless, he turned back to his reading, the air suddenly feeling hot and the space between them, mere inches, felt both too close together and too far apart all at once.

He had no idea what that feeling in his chest could possibly mean; he could not fathom the reason for his paradoxical thoughts at all, and resolved himself to his reading, hoping that it would fade. 

Sure enough, Anthony had become immersed in his book; so much so, that he had not noticed Penelope falling asleep, lulled by the gentle warmth of the sun and the constant motion of the carriage. 

A gentle weight falling onto his shoulder is what finally shook him from his reading; Anthony, half-startled, twisted slightly in his seat, but he was stopped short.

Penelope. Asleep. On his shoulder.

He was not sure what to do about that.

Anthony was not the only one who had noticed; Benedict was smirking at him.

“Do you make a good pillow, brother?” Eloise asked, giggling. Benedict opened his mouth to speak.

“Do not dare to say anything,” Anthony hissed, glaring darkly. 

“I am saying nothing.” Benedict insisted, though his eyes belied him.

“You are both to let her sleep, and are not to tease her about it.” Anthony whispered, glaring at Eloise and Benedict in turn. 

“I would never!” Eloise bit out, in as hushed a voice as Eloise could muster. “She’s my favourite!”

“I thought I was your favourite!” Benedict responded, choking back a shout as Anthony kicked his shin.

“Quiet!” He hissed again, and Eloise smirked, going back to her Whistledown investigating without responding to Benedict. The second Bridgerton child huffed, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath and going back to his drawing, turning over a new page in his sketchbook.

Satisfied by his siblings’ seeming continued silence, Anthony twisted his head as much as he could to look at Penelope. 

Her notebook lay open on her lap, and though a part of him itched to read whatever had been private enough to dodge his earlier attempts at reading, he closed it, tucking it to her side so that she knew it could not have been tampered with.

As much as he wanted to read it, to find out what secrets she had been spilling between the pages, he did not want to-nor did he believe he  _ could-  _ betray the trust she placed in him.

Trust that was still fragile. Trust gained from hardship and vulnerability. 

Trust that was formed between two broken, wretched beings in the dark.

No, he would not betray that bond now, not when he knew the terrible events that had happened to form it.

Instead, Anthony figured that it would be best for him to make himself useful and indeed, be a good “pillow” for Penelope to rest against. He moved in his seat, trying to make sure that Penelope was resting in a way that would not cause her neck to ache too much. He ignored the side-glances from Eloise and Benedict, both trying and failing to subtly observe him, and he  _ resolutely _ ignored the way Penelope sighed into his shoulder as he finally stopped moving, nestling her head rather like she was burrowing for comfort.

He could not hear Eloise’s giggles at all.

He still glared at her, for good measure, before returning back to his book, but it was not long at all before the rest of them had fallen asleep- Benedict and Eloise slumped at either ends of their bench, Benedict snoring and Eloise drooling, oblivious to the world. 

Anthony himself fell asleep not long after, allowing himself to doze off, careful not to wake Penelope or jostle her as he put his book away and cut off the carriage light. His head lolled back and rested against hers softly, falling into unconsciousness.

***

  
It was a bump in the road that eventually roused Penelope, who stifled a yawn as she blinked her eyes open slowly, and she winced at the bright light that filled the carriage. She had no idea what time it was, but the city had long disappeared behind her, making way for fields and trees as far as she could see out of the window. 

She looked around the carriage, biting back a chuckle as Benedict let out a particularly loud snore. Eloise, still asleep herself, had noticed enough to fling her arm sideways, smack him in the shoulder. He let out a choking noise, before eventually settling back into softer snores, and Penelope mustered all her strength to not burst out laughing, when she suddenly noticed the soft weight against her and stiffened. 

Her eyes darted to the side, and she could see Anthony’s frame startlingly close to her. She twisted her head up, and she had to bite her hand to stop her from waking the carriage with her shriek.

Anthony.

Her cheeks flushed bright red, and Penelope realised that she must have fallen asleep on him. Shame roiled within her. And how kind he had been to allow her to rest on him! She felt awful for taking such liberties with him, the guilt twisting in her stomach. She breathed in deeply, counting slowly to ten.

She started to ponder how best to extricate herself from Anthony, not wanting to wake him but also sure that she could not continue taking advantage of him by resting on his shoulder- and would his neck not hurt, having bent to rest above hers? It was not fair to him at all.

She finally began to pull back from him, when a hand grasped her wrist, and it took all she could not to yelp.

“Where are you going?” Anthony mumbled, his voice thick and rough with sleep, and Penelope swallowed thickly. He cracked open one eye, smiling lazily at her. She blushed again, absolutely mortified.

“I’m so sorry!” She whispered, her eyes wide even though sleep still tried to tug them shut. “I’m  _ so _ sorry for falling asleep on you Anthony!” He chuckled, a low, slow sound that caused Penelope’s stomach to flutter inexplicably. He patted his jacket pocket, pulling out his pocket watch and glancing at it for a moment, before putting it away, his movements slow and less graceful than usual.

There was a softness about him, a boyishness that he did not have when he was awake, that she had not been privy to before. 

It was nice to see.

“Nothing...to apologise for…” He murmured softly, “You may as well fall back to sleep, we have a while to go yet.” 

“Oh I-I could not take advantage-”

“Take advantage?” He asked, frowning softly, cutting across Penelope’s protestations, “you did not take advantage at all. I do not mind.”

“I-I feel bad,” Penelope stammered, wringing her wrists. “It was impertinent of me.”

“I suppose only in the way that I am impertinent for saying that you were very comfortable to sleep against.” Anthony retorted, raising his brow. Penelope blushed again. 

“Please? I was having a nice dream.” He added. Penelope swallowed thickly.

“O-Only if you are sure,” she murmured, and was rewarded with another soft, lazily smile from Anthony. 

“Well, come on then,” He said, winking and patting his chest teasingly. Despite her blushing, she rolled her eyes, tentatively curling into his chest. He slung his arm around her gently, and she could not help but stiffen, her breath hitching.

“Is that alright?” He asked sleepily, “I would not want to take liberties of my own if you were uncomfortable.

“It-It is fine,” Penelope stammered into his chest, “I was just not expecting it.”

“Ah,” Anthony whispered. “Very well then.” 

Despite the strange thumping of her heart, it was not long until Penelope fell back into Morpheus’ embrace, lulled into dreams by the surrounding warmth of Anthony’s body, and the slow and steady beating in his chest.

***

The second time Penelope woke, it was to a gentle squeeze of the shoulder. She huffed, moving to burrow further into the warmth, when a soft chuckle caused her to stiffen. Her back aching, she pulled back slightly, mourning the loss of heat as she cracked open her eyes, blinking away the sleep. 

Anthony grinned lazily at her, his skin glowing from the light; the sun was setting, and it bathed everything in the carriage in gold; Penelope could see Anthony’s eyes, turned liquid amber in the light, the corner of his lips turned upwards into a languid smirk.

She blushed brightly, having realised that she was trying to burrow further into  _ him. _

“We should be there soon,” Anthony murmured, still smiling. “Did you have a pleasant sleep?” He asked her, and she was taken aback when she realised that he was not making fun of her. 

“I-I did, very much so. Thank you,” Penelope murmured, “did you sleep well yourself?” 

“I slept some, and it was a good sleep, though I surely will fall asleep easily tonight.” Penelope nodded absently, moving out of the lazy embrace they had fallen into and stretching, sighing in relief as her spine clicked and popped. She did not notice the quick flush that raced across Anthony’s cheeks, nor the subconscious way with which he wet his lips, his tongue darting out quickly, swallowing down the strange and unprovoked lump in his throat.

“You must endeavour to sleep early, tonight then,” She replied, smoothing her hair down; for somebody who spent most of the journey asleep, she looked much less rumpled than Eloise or Benedict, both of them still deep in the throes of sleep, this time slumped against each other, heads close together; Eloise’s drool pooled on the seat, her hair sticking up every-which way. Benedict fared no better, his own clothes rumpled and hair tousled, the thick snoring emanating from him as loud as the rest of him. She was lucky in that regard.

“ _ Must _ I? Whatever you wish, Miss Penelope.” Anthony asked, and she could not help but to roll her eyes at him, fighting back a smile. “Should we wake up dear Eloise and Benedict?” He asked, stretching himself and smoothing down his clothing.

“I suppose it would be only the kind thing to do, would it not?” Penelope asked, and at Anthony’s considering nod, his eyes sparkling, this time reminding her more of honey than amber as they glowed in the sunset. 

“I believe you are right, but however shall we do so?” He responded, his hand moving under his chin as if in deep thought.

It was Penelope’s turn to smirk at him, murmuring a soft “leave it to me,” as she leant forward. She took a deep breath, and counted to ten.

_ “BOO!” _ She shouted, and lurched backwards as Eloise and Benedict woke with matching screeches, jumping and knocking their heads together.

_ “SHIT!” _ They cried out, and Penelope looked back at Anthony.

It took three seconds for them to dissolve into laughter, and Penelope’s ribs  _ ached _ as she shook with giggles, leaning against Anthony as Eloise and Benedict grumbled and whined.

“Did you put her up to this?” Benedict growled at Anthony.

“Not at all dear brother!” He choked out, still laughing, “Penelope was both the visionary and the executor of that all on her own!”

“Yes, this definitely had Penelope written all over it.” Eloise whined, and Penelope burst into another round of giggles at Benedict’s look of wounded pride and astonishment.

“It is always the quiet ones you have to look out for,” Penelope quipped, and this time Eloise joined in on their laughter. 

Benedict huffed, crossing his arms. 

“My head hurts.” He whined, pouting. 

“You can gripe about that later,” Anthony interrupted, “we are almost at the estate and if we are not  _ somewhat _ presentable, Mother will have our heads.”

Eloise snorted.

“Mother? What about  _ Daphne?” _ She asked. Benedict stilled, his eyes widening.

“Right,” he blustered, “best get on with it then. I’ve no intention of being slaughtered tonight.”

***

The quartet had just enough time to fix their sleep-rumpled clothes and mussed up hair before the carriage pulled in, coming to a smooth stop. Penelope’s heart began to race.

Would she be an imposition, after all? Should she have stayed in London?

“Penelope?” Anthony asked. He had stepped out of the carriage after Eloise and Benedict, and held out his hand, offering his aid. She took his hand with a smile, the strange familiarity centering her for a moment as her feet found solid ground. 

“Oh,” Penelope breathed, her mouth slackening as she gazed at Clyvedon Castle. 

It was a thing of true beauty, and Penelope suddenly felt infinitesimally smaller standing in front of it.

“You’re here!” Came a cry, and Penelope’s attention was refocused on Daphne and Simon; the former of which had started running towards them, enveloping Violet in a crushing hug. The latter came towards them more sedately, a small grin playing on his lips as he stared at his wife. Daphne pulled back from her and her mother’s mutual embrace, and Penelope’s heart lurched. 

She had  _ never _ been embraced like that by her own mother. 

Something raw howled inside her, and she forced it down. 

“I have been positively  _ bubbling _ with excitement! I have missed you all so much!” Daphne said, wrapping each of her siblings in a tight hug in turn. 

Simon grinned, making his own greetings to each of the Bridgertons “Daphne has indeed been  _ bubbling _ with excitement for the past  _ week. _ It has been infuriating.” Daphne glared at him playfully, and Penelope had to bite her lip from laughing.

She had never seen two people who so plainly adored each other more.

“And Penelope!” Daphne gasped, twirling towards her. Penelope flushed, and started to move into a curtsy.

“Y-your Grace-” 

“Please,” Simon cut across, moving towards her and bowing, placing a kiss on Penelope’s knuckles and smiling, “you have no need to curtsy to us. We are family now, yes?” He asked. Penelope could not help but blush, even as Daphne grabbed her from Simon and enveloped her in a crushing hug of her own. Penelope patted Daphne’s back awkwardly, and the older woman pulled back for a moment, smiling before looping her arm with Penelope’s.

“Please, she’s always  _ been _ family, it is only now we can show it.” She said, and Penelope felt the familiar warm glow she had often felt around other members of the family. The warm glow that settled in her chest and made her feel safe and wanted.

“Hear hear,” Eloise grinned, looping Daphne’s other arm. 

“Now, do not get ahead of yourself, sister,” Benedict quipped. “I see what you are doing, but Penelope and I have already settled it; I am her favourite sibling.” He grinned. 

“Oi!” Eloise cried out, and Daphne huffed. Penelope could not stop the roll of her eyes in time, nor the retort that fell from her lips.

“I already told you, my favourite is Hyacinth.” 

There was a beat of silence, one that lasted for but a moment, and yet Penelope felt like it was an eternity. She wanted the ground to open up beneath her and plunge her into hell. Would she be the first recorded death by mortification?

“Penelope!” Eloise shouted, breaking the brief silence, and the overall surprise at Penelope’s caustic remark was replaced by laughter, and Penelope felt the knot in her stomach ease. 

“You’re my favourite, too.” Hyacinth added, looping her arm around Penelope’s free one. “Unless somebody else gets me a pony.”

***

Anthony added a log onto the fire in his room; after a light supper and a tour of the castle, everybody had turned in early, tired by the long journey despite the slumbering in the carriages. But Anthony could not sleep- he wanted to, certainly, but he was waiting. He had pulled Simon aside after supper, and had asked to meet him in- Anthony looked at his pocket watch- three hours in Simon’s study. 

He assumed everybody was asleep, which is why he was not prepared for the light, almost inaudible rapping on the door. He made his way over, opening it. His eyes widened.

“Penelope?” He murmured, and she smiled thinly at him. She lifted up a tea tray.

“Tea?” She asked, and Anthony, nonplussed, stood aside, motioning her in.

He shut the door behind him, and Penelope, having walked over to the table beside the chaise, and in front of the fire, started pouring their cups. 

“I-Penelope-” Anthony stammered for a moment. “Are you well?” He said, crossing the room over to her. She smiled thinly at him again, and he noticed the deep circles under her eyes, and the bedclothes she was wearing.

“I...could not sleep.” She confessed, pressing a cup into his hands, the heat warming into his bones. “I simply...would like to have tea.” 

“Very well.” He whispered, and they sat side-by-side on the chaise, in front of the fire, drinking their tea. Anthony had not told her of his preferences, so he was surprised when he took an initial sip that he did not want to add anything to it. It was lavender and something else he could not place, soothing and sweet, and Anthony rather thought that perhaps he had been gifted with a new favourite type of tea.

He looked over at Penelope. 

“You look pale. Are you ill?” He asked, and Penelope sighed, taking a long pull of her tea. 

“I find it difficult to sleep in strange houses. I suspect I’ll have trouble sleeping for the first couple of nights. I will not intrude on you again- I simply needed to relax, and I saw the light under your door.” 

“You are welcome to take tea with me anytime,” Anthony responded, and Penelope bowed her head, giving him another shaky smile as she lifted her teacup to her lips.

It was only then he noticed the bruises on her knuckles. 

“Penelope,” Anthony frowned. “Your knuckles, what happened?” 

“Oh!” Penelope gasped, stammering and looking sheepish. “I-I stretched in my room earlier and I was a bit too  _ vigorous _ and, well, I suppose I hit it rather hard on the corner of my bedside table.” She twittered, laughing thinly, “I am a clumsy person! I really need to watch myself more carefully.” 

Anthony nodded. 

Penelope had lied to him. He could tell he had, but he did not want to push her.

Well, he supposed that was incorrect. He wanted to push her on it  _ desperately _ , but he remembered Simon’s letter to him, the one he hadn’t shown Penelope, burning a hole even now in his jacket-pocket. 

Patience.

Penelope yawned suddenly, squeaking as she clamped her hand over her mouth, cheeks burning. Anthony chuckled. 

“I think  _ that _ means you should be able to rest easy now, yes?” He said, standing and brushing himself down. “Leave the tray here, I’ll have somebody collect it in the morning.” He held out his hand for her and she took it, shockingly not fighting him to stay awake.

“I suppose...sleep is important.” She conceded, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as Anthony led her the dismally short distance to her room- it was opposite his, and he found that he did not  _ quite _ want to let go of her hand just yet. He did so anyway, and felt a strange sense of loss that he could not place.

_ Maybe they  _ were  _ friends _ , after all. Anthony thought.

“I shall bid you goodnight.” Anthony said, and made to turn around, when Penelope grasped a hold of his wrist. Her fingers slipped down to twine with his, and she squeezed his hand gently.

_ Once. _

“Anthony, please do not stay up all night and get some rest yourself,” Penelope pleaded, her eyes wider than usual. He nodded at her.

_ Twice. _

“Whatever you desire,” He winked, “And Penelope?”

“Yes?”

“What was in that tea?” He asked her. 

She grinned at him sleepily. “Lavender, chamomile, and  _ honey, _ ” Penelope answered.

_ Thrice. _

She let go of his hand, smiling at him before shutting the door behind her. 

Anthony was left out in the hallway, his stomach in knots and a lump in his throat.

That was the first time he had honey, without it tasting like…

_ Like death. _ He thought to himself, and he brought a hand up to his chest. His heart was hammering loudly, and he did not know why. 

The letter in his pocket felt like a weight on his chest all of a sudden, and Anthony, taking three deep, gasping breaths, opened his pocket watch.

It was time to go to Simon’s study. 

_ Perhaps _ , he thought,  _ he might get some answers. _

He took the letter out of his pocket, reading over the words again and again, even though he had already memorised each line and could recite them by heart. 

  
  


_ Dear Anthony, _

_ Your questions were impertinent and unthinkably personal. If anybody else were to ask such questions of my person I would take them to task. I would have no hesitation in beating them bloody.  _

_ But you are family, and one of my oldest friends. I know you would not ask such about such a personal matter if it meant not a great deal to you, and thus I shall try my best to answer your questions to the best of my ability; though I think perhaps a conversation with yourself upon your arrival at Clyvedon might help illuminate the full extent of the situation and allow us to discuss more freely how best Miss Penelope may be helped.  _

_ I am aware that you have not disclosed the full extent of Penelope’s hardships to me, and I am cognizant that you may not know the full extent of her inner demons yourself. Furthermore, I understand that Miss Penelope and I are two very different people and despite any similarities in our experiences, our reactions may be different and what we both require to heal may be different; I say this not to dissuade you, but to take my advice as what it is; based on my subjective needs and experiences. If you believe that Miss Penelope would not respond to something that I would, then please do not hesitate to disregard my advice.  _

_ My first piece of advice to you Anthony, is this; Penelope is not alone. She may think she is, and indeed for most of her life she did not have somebody fighting her corner like I did, but the fact is that she does now; she has all of you, she only needs to realise that. And she will surely only realise that if you all endeavour to show her; you need not pull any extravagant gestures, for surely she would think them deceptive and be reticent to the meaning behind it, but in the small gestures and kind things that you do daily without fanfare, she will find trust and believe yourselves to be supporting her earnestly.  _

_ What I needed to hear is, I think, irrelevant. It is not what I needed to hear, but what I needed to be  _ shown _ that was most important.  _

_ I needed to be shown that I was important, and wanted, and cared for just the way I was. That I did not need to strive for an unattainable level of perfection to be loved, I was already worthy of it. That I was a good man, and that the sins of my father are not mine to bear.  _

_ I know not of Miss Penelope’s psyche; I know far less about that than you do, but I did not understand those things until I was shown them. Words meant nothing, and words mean nothing without the actions behind them.  _

_ Furthermore, I shall impress on you the importance of this; Patience. I know you are not the most patient man, and I know that you do not like to sit around waiting when action could be taken, but you must heed my advice and calm yourself. I do not know if Miss Penelope’s actions that night are the result of her reaching her limit, or if her limit has yet to come, but if you are not patient with her, she will not allow you to help her through it.  _

_ She must make the step herself, you see? She must decide that she can be helped, but more importantly that she  _ wants _ help. She needs to make that choice on her own, without you pushing or pressuring her to do so. Daphne had to learn that the hard way with me, and though we eventually found ourselves in each other and I eventually accepted the help I needed, it was not an easy journey to go on. It took a long time and a lot of arguing, and yes I was also at fault to many of the difficulties in our marriage.  _

_ But, were I to impress upon you one thing I wish my dear wife had done differently, it  _ would  _ be that she had been more patient with me. It was only when she took a step back and was patient with me that she truly understood, and that is what I believe Miss Penelope needs. She needs you to truly understand, and to not force her into accepting help, but allowing her to feel safe and comfortable and wanted enough, to ask for help herself.  _

_ I know that may not be what you wanted to hear; but it is the best advice I can disclose for now.  _

_ It is plain to me as the sun rising in the East that you all hold affection for the young woman; yourself more than I think you know, perhaps. If you are earnest in your desire to help her, the simplest thing I can suggest is being there.  _

_ Be a constant in her life; do not close yourself off, but offer up part of yourself to her. Make her feel not alone. Make her feel wanted and needed. _

_ I hope that this has, at least, given you a place to start.  _ __   
  


_ Your Obedient Servant, _

_ Simon Hastings. _


	8. The Beast's Lament (Broken, Wretched)

The ground was cold and solid. 

It chilled Penelope to the bone, and she awoke slowly, her eyes flickering open. 

She could tell the ground was cold and solid, and possibly earth, from the way her nails dug into it as she tried to get up; her legs aching even though she did not know why.

_ What has happened? _ She wondered to herself. 

Penelope rubbed at her eyes, and then rubbed them again as the darkness that surrounded her did not disappear. 

She could not see. 

_ Why can I not see? _ Penelope thought to herself.

“Hello?” Penelope called out, her voice echoing into the air, tremulous and small. 

The air itself felt...different. Thick and cloying, and slightly damp. 

And cold. 

It clung to her, and she shivered. 

“Eloise?” She called again, “Anthony? Benedict?  _ Anybody _ !” She cried out, her voice echoing louder and louder. 

_ Why was nobody answering her? _

Penelope forced herself to remain calm, breathing in deeply and counting her breaths to ten. 

Her whole body felt heavy; from the damp air clinging to her skin, to the mysterious lead weights that seemed to have become of her legs. 

She shivered; Penelope knew that if she could see, her breath would be escaping her lips in puffs of smoke. 

Penelope had never hated the dark so much. 

It was all-consuming and fathomless; and as she called out “Anybody?” again, all that greeted her were her own echoes, clamouring over one another in a cacophony of sound, until they faded into suffocating silence. 

Penelope choked back a sob, biting her bottom lip until it started to sting, sharp tingles and the taste of blood on her lips, metallic and, against the cold, painfully hot on her tongue. 

_ “Hello” _

Penelope jumped, choking back a scream and her hand flying to her chest; her heart thudded erratically, and she counted to ten, her eyes squeezing closed despite the fact that she could not see at all. 

“H-hello?” She responded after a long silence. Her voice still echoed, but something felt...different. 

She cracked her eyes open the slightest amount, but the darkness was still all consuming. 

Had she imagined it? Had she imagined the voice talking to her? 

Sluggishly, she took a step forward, tentatively trying to feel her way around in the absence of everything; she stumbled over herself, and Penelope tried to hold on to something,  _ anything, _ but there was nothing there; her hands could not find purchase, and she fell to the ground with a heavy, damp  _ thud, _ holding back a shriek as pain lanced through her leg. 

She scrambled into a sitting position, her hands moving down her right leg; she still could not see a thing, but she could tell that she had at least twisted it. She touched it gently, hissing as another lash of pain spiked through her. 

She could not help but curse to herself, feeling around blindly, her hands coming into contact with nothing but apparently cold, solid earth. 

She was in pain, and she was cold, and she was damp.

She had no idea where she was.

And she was alone. 

Penelope wanted to cry; she wanted to  _ scream, _ to beg for somebody to come and find her, to take her out of the darkness. She wanted Eloise to come shouting about Lady Whistledown, or Violet to sweep her into a hug and tell her it was okay, or Benedict to loop her arm with his and drag her off into whatever trouble he had cooked up..

She wanted  _ Anthony. _

She wanted nothing more than for him to be holding a candle and holding out his hands towards her; to help her limp back and help her into bed and give her lavender and chamomile and honey tea. 

But she was lost.

And Anthony was not there; may not even know where  _ she _ was.

And she was alone. 

There was no candle in the dark; no hand reaching out; just her, and her stinging ankle and the cold.

Ankle protesting, Penelope heaved herself up shakily, trying to lean on her other ankle to reduce pressure.

And then, the hairs on Penelope’s skin began to stand on end. 

A shiver dashed down her spine; chilly despite the already bone-deep cold she had gotten used to in the darkness. 

She twisted her head either side of her, trying to see something,  _ anything _ at all. 

Breath haggard, Penelope felt her throat thicken, and she tried to swallow the lump that had formed; but it simply knotted into her stomach, rolling around in the empty well and bouncing off the sides nervously. 

Her hands slid to her stomach, nails gripping into the fabric desperately. 

She wanted to claw her nerves out of her, take the knotted ball and throw it far away, and  _ damn it all _ if she had to open herself up to do so she would!

But it was to no avail; her nails met not skin but just layers of fabric and despite her efforts, she could not even scratch her stays; let alone dig in deep enough to gouge pieces out of her own skin.

And something in the very pits of her soul said  _ move. _

Penelope staggered forward in the dark, her hands reaching out and her feet painfully trying to make sure she did not fall into a hole or trip over anything that may be on the ground. 

Her hands met nothing but air but she carried on waving them in front of her, half-hoping to find  _ something, _ but half-hoping to continue finding nothing but air.

Her ankle cried with every step, with every awkward fumble forward and choked down hiss of pain, but she just kept moving, dragging her right leg in front of her one pang of pain at a time. 

Penelope just kept  _ going, _ despite all the  _ hurting _ and the  _ aching _ and the  _ freezing  _ cold that continued to surround her on all sides, her eyes blinking in the darkness, just hoping to see some sort of light; some evidence as to where she was.

Finally, she had to stop; her ankle was screaming and she could no longer ignore it. Penelope sat down slowly, her hands moving her ankle to try and massage it, to try to do anything she could to relieve the pain; but it did not help. 

_ What can I do? _ Penelope thought, and one of her hands slid to her sleeve when she got an idea; taking a deep breath to prepare herself, Penelope moved her hands to her dress, peeling back the layers until she felt her shift, the soft cotton blessedly dry. 

She felt a ruffle sewn at the bottom, and, grabbing it carefully, she ripped; the fabric came apart after another two efforts to pry the fabric apart with a satisfying sound that echoed around her, and she kept going; ripping all the way around until she came off with a ribbon of soft, dry fabric. 

Perhaps it was a lucky blessing that Penelope had experience with dressing her own wounds; she at least knew enough to wrap her ankle and did so, wrapping the fabric around her ankle and up her calf, divesting her stays of its wooden busk to support her ankle and calf with something solid. 

She could not have said how long it took to do so as plunged into darkness as she was, but by the time she had finished, her breathing had evened and though the pressure in her ankle was not gone it had been alleviated.

Penelope stood, slowly, testing her ankle gently on the ground. It was stiff and still painful, but the pressure and support helped.

_ “Pathetic” _

Penelope shrieked, her hand clutching at her chest again; the hairs on her skin were standing on end once more, and Penelope could not ignore that something had indeed whispered to her in the dark. 

“H-Hello?” She called again, her hand moving to her head; her hair was up, which was...strange. She rarely had it up these days. 

There was a slow, deep rumble that caused Penelope’s stomach to twist and clench, her skin tingling uncomfortably.

She tried to move forward but she could not; her legs were heavy, as if stuck to the ground, and no matter how hard she tugged she could not take a single step. 

Hot air blew gently at the back of her neck, and Penelope whimpered.

_ “Look at you.”  _ The voice, dark and rumbling and scratchy whispered in her ear, and Penelope wanted to scream.

She knew that voice; she heard it every day inside her own head.

_ The Beast. _

Lightning lit up the sky in a crack, and Penelope found herself surrounded in fog before being plunged back into the shadows; the lightning cracked again, and suddenly Penelope could move.

She ran.

_ “Look how pathetic you are,” _ The Beast growled, its voice echoing against the cracks of lightning that lit up the ocean of fog as she ran forward.

_ “Fragile, pathetic bitch,”  _ the Beast chuckled,  _ “how easily you break. How easily you dissolve.” _

Penelope looked back behind her for just a moment; lightning lit up the ocean of fog once more, and for a second, Penelope could see a looming shadow; shapeless and threatening.

She just. Kept. Running.

_ “Look how alone you are!” _ It crowed out, and Penelope wanted to scream.

_ “Do you feel it? The depths of your loneliness?”  _ The Beast screamed,  _ “You are not wanted, you are not needed!” _

Her ankle was on fire, but the fear in her blood took over and she just kept running, the pain fading away into horror. 

_ “Death is all that befits you,” _ It shouted, and Penelope could not help but cry out this time. She did not stop running, tears racing down her cheeks as she ran towards nothingness, just trying to get away.

The lightning kept coming, flashes of light chorused by rolling thunder and sharp whipping cracks of sound, the fog endless and thick and all consuming. 

_ “Ugly, useless fool,”  _ The Beast laughed richly, and the sound seemed to come at her from all sides, echoes smacking against one another.  _ “Tainted, broken, wretched.” _

Penelope’s legs ached, and her chest raced and her lungs were heaving, but she would not stop.

She  _ could not _ stop. 

Something deep inside her begged to keep going, and so she did, despite it all.

_ “You want to give up, don’t you?” _ The Beast crooned,  _ “I can see it on your face. You give up too easily.”  _

“Stop it!” Penelope screamed into the air, still running.

The Beast laughed, and Penelope twisted her head behind her again; the shadow of the Beast was still behind her, but it felt closer than ever before. 

_ “You will never escape it. The abandoned sheep will be slaughtered willingly.”  _ The Beast wailed, its coarse voice scratching against her, bouncing around in her skull.  _ “And the flock will feast on its blood. _ ”

“I am no  _ sheep! _ ” Penelope shrieked, stumbling over herself. She picked herself back up and kept running despite The Beast’s laughter.

_ “You are fragile. You are food. You will dissolve so deliciously!” _ It cried back, and with one last scream of determination, Penelope plunged out of the fog into pouring rain.

Thick drops of water pelted her relentlessly, icy and soaking her skin, her hair; lightning and thunder continued to flash and roil above her, and Penelope continued running, her feet sinking into earth that was rapidly turning into mud.

She was so  _ tired. _ Penelope wanted nothing more than to cry and curl into a ball and scream until she disappeared, but she kept going.

She slipped and sludged through the mud as fast as possible, dirt clinging to her sodden clothes and her aching ankle dredging up dirt with each heaving movement. 

She felt an incline, and Penelope looked forward; in front of her she saw a looming hill and the shadow of something man-made and vaguely house-shaped. 

_ “The earth wants you back!” _ The Beast cried from the fog-was it trapped?  _ “Don’t you want to rest?” _

She kept  _ running _ .

The hill was steep and swampy, and Penelope struggled to stand, let alone run, but she kept going anyway. 

_ “Do you know how to love?” _ Screeched The Beast, it’s voice both more distant and closer to her.  _ “It is like dying! Tell me how it feels…” _ It purred.

Penelope stumbled, sinking into the mud, her hands flying in front of her to protect her face. She glanced behind her.

The Beast was still a shapeless void, but through the lightning and the rain she could see bright red eyes glowing in the darkness, and as the lightning flashed again, all Penelope could see was  _ teeth;  _ rows upon rows of large, sharp, curved teeth, carved out into a wicked grin. 

Penelope scrambled in the mud, her hands digging into the sodden earth as her legs slipped and slid over themselves to stand again; she practically crawled up the hill, pushing herself back up as fast as possible, the torrent of rain getting worse each second that passed.

_ “Tainted, wretched monster!” _ The Beast laughed.

And Penelope was finally at the top of the hill; the house, for it was certainly a house in the barest sense of the word, seemed abandoned; derelict. 

She could just about make out overgrown vines crawling up the walls and a half-collapsed roof, and another flash of light revealed rotting wooden stairs and smashed windows. 

Penelope debated with herself; was she really safe in there?

She glanced behind herself. 

The Beast was getting closer and closer, and Penelope ran towards the door. She tripped and slipped her way to the stairs, and out of the corner of her eyes, she could see shapes forming from the fathomless shadow that was The Beast. 

The rotted stairs creaked under her and her hands fell onto the door handle. She twisted and pushed and tried to open it, but it would not open no matter what she did.

She tried the rusted door knocker, rapping it erratically on the door, sharp knocks running straight through her. 

_ “Let yourself be devoured!” _ The Beast growled, and Penelope, still trying to open the door, glimpsed a sharp claw raising beside her.

The door opened, and as Penelope slipped inside The Beast lunged, its claws scratching at her skin as she managed to slip inside, slamming the door behind her. 

Penelope, panting, leant against the door as thunder and lightning rattled around outside, shrieking against the windows. 

She felt something hot and damp stinging against her skin, and she brought a muddy hand up to her cheek; she felt three stinging, wet wounds from where The Beast’s claws had come upon her. 

Penelope started to sob. 

She slid down the door, almost heaving with the strength of her sobs as the wrecked through her, wet and desperate and searching for anybody that would listen. 

Penelope closed her eyes tight, willing,  _ begging _ for somebody to find her, to reach out to her. 

_ “ _ Somebody,  _ please.” _ She begged. Her heart felt like it was close to bursting. Penelope tried hard to regain her breath and steady her heart. She counted slowly to ten, before opening her eyes again and trying her best to figure out just where she had ended up. 

The house seemed….familiar. 

Penelope gazed out into the foyer of the house, which was much larger than its outward appearances had suggested to her. Nor was it in such a state of disrepair, as far as she could tell- certainly, she could not hear wind or rain coming from inside, nor could she feel the wooden floorboards beneath her feet bending and creaking the way the stairs had. 

Lightning struck again, lighting up the foyer enough that Penelope could see a set of drawers to the side of her. She stumbled towards it, her hands fumbling around, rummaging for anything that she could use to light her way.

_ Fantastic! _ She thought to herself, her hands having come upon a small object that felt familiar in Penelope’s hands. 

A tinderbox. 

A wave of relief crashed around her, and Penelope rummaged blindly through the drawers until she found what could only have been a candle, feeling around the cold wax for a wick. Her hands shaking, the candle eventually flickered into life, casting deep shadows all around her even as it brought light, and Penelope tried to figure out exactly  _ why _ the house seemed so familiar to her.

Even in the entryway, something inside her said  _ I have been here before. _

Penelope started wandering around the house, desperate to find something that told her where she was; anything that could tell her where anybody  _ else _ was. 

Her eyes roved over towards the staircase; winding upwards, the metal banisters were wrought with dust-laden butterflies, and Penelope had the distinct thought that she had seen the stairs before- that she had perhaps run up and down them, gripping on tight to the banisters to stop herself from slipping. 

Her recollection was hazy, feeling like the ghost of a memory. It tingled in the back of her mind, begging to become known to her, and yet no matter how much she concentrated, she could not piece together the puzzle nor could she find the right page in the book. 

Penelope felt drawn to the stairs; she could not place the feeling that came over her as anything but a distinct  _ need _ to climb them, and, having resigned herself to isolation, she did, despite her ankle’s protests. 

Penelope gripped the banister tightly, ignoring the dust caking her palm as she used it to support herself up the steps, each slow movement causing her bones to ache until eventually, she managed to get upstairs.

Her feet guided her of their own accord, and Penelope stumbled into a bedroom that caused the same tingling and scratching in her brain that told her  _ you have been here before. _ From the faded damask walls to the dust-covered, opulent bed, and the thick, heavy curtains to the gilded vanity littered with half-emptied products, something inside her screamed  _ familiarity. _

Not home, nor safety. But  _ familiarity. _

And it was then that Penelope knew. 

“ _ Goodness,”  _ Penelope whispered into dead air, her hand moving to her house.

Her old bedroom.

She was in the Featherington estate, and Penelope could see it easily now, mentally berating herself for not having realised sooner.

Had her old home become a stranger to her so soon? Did she really feel so uncomfortable here that the house felt more danger than safety?

Her mind lingered on the question, answering  _ yes _ despite the matter that Penelope did not want to admit it to herself. 

_ Though, _ she thought bitterly,  _ this house has never really been a home to me, by any measure. _

But still, Penelope thought something was amiss.

Surely, her room may be covered in dust from neglect, but that said nothing about the rest of the house, surely?

Surely the other rooms should be well-kept? Maintained? Surely she should have seen a servant or perhaps heard Phillipa or Prudence?

And if this was the Featherington house, why was it on a hill? Why was it so decrepit outside? Where was the rest of Grosvenor Square, or indeed the Bridgerton house?

Questions upon questions and yet no answers to be found. Penelope wanted to scream.

_ Where  _ was _ everybody? _ She thought.  _ Am I truly alone? _

And in the next moment, she wished she was, for an almighty crash rattled from downstairs, and a chilling laugh crawled down Penelope’s spine.

_ “The sheep has returned to the barn!” _ The Beast crowed out,  _ “and to the slaughterhouse the sheep will go!” _

Penelope raced to shut the door, grabbing the only item she could- the chair at her vanity- and propped it up under the doorknob, praying that it would be enough to stave away The Beast.

_ “Worthless, shriveled soul,” _ The Beast laughed,  _ “let the darkness hold you!” _

Penelope could feel the rattles with each step it took upwards. She fell onto her chest, pushing away linen and silk sheets to hide under her bed, and throat aching with the need to cough as dust filled her lungs. She bit her teeth against her hand harshly, browbeating the coughs into submission.

The steps of The Beast came ever closer, and it was all Penelope could do not to cry.

_ “Show yourself,”  _ The Beast crooned,  _ “Let yourself dissolve. You want that. You deserve that!” _

Penelope’s heart thudded against her lungs, a hummingbird trying to break the cage that had been wrought from her ribs. 

The doorknob rattled.

_ “Ugly, useless vermin!” _ The Beast shouted from the other side of the door.  _ “I will devour you!” _

The doorknob rattled again, before the chair fell with an almighty bang, and Penelope squeezed her eyes shut, teeth drawing blood from her hand with the force of her biting, trying to make no noise at all. 

The Beast stepped into the room, and Penelope just squeezed her eyes tighter. 

There was nothing but silence.

And then a breeze on her cheeks. 

Suddenly, there was a weight underneath Penelope’s feet, and a breeze on her skin.

Tremulously, she opened her eyes, one at a time and slowly. 

The moon was full, and a clear, crystalline white beaming down upon her. 

In the expanse of rich blue night, the stars seemed painfully bright, ready to guide lost souls home.

Endless ocean lay before her, still and glassy, reflecting the light above, and Penelope looked down upon herself. 

A white chemise, and the wooden boards of a dock. 

Her ankle no longer hurt. Indeed, her whole body felt lighter than it ever had done, and Penelope stepped towards the edge of the dock, leaning forward to look at herself in the reflection of the water. 

_ “It is a good night to die, is it not?” _ The Beast asked her, a crooning purr, its reflection joining hers in the water. 

“I suppose it is.” Penelope conceded, though inside she was screaming at herself. Why was she not running? Why did she not simply shove The Beast into the water? Why could she not move?

_ “You did not succeed last time, did you?” _

“I did not,” Penelope answered, even though she did not mean to say it at all. Her body did not feel like her own; rather it felt like she was a passenger in the carriage that somebody else was driving. 

_ “Do you not want peace?”  _ The Beast asked, its breath licking at her neck. She no longer had the marks of its claws on her skin.  _ “Do you not long to disappear into shadow?” _

Penelope blinked and swallowed heavily.

“I-I do not-” She stammered, wrestling for control of her words.

_ “Are you not a wretched woman,” _ The Beast pressed onward,  _ “do you not deserve to dissolve?” _

“I-” 

_ “Would it not be a gift to everybody else?” _ The Beast pushed, huffing at her. Penelope got the distinct feeling that The Beast was impatient with her, if it could indeed feel such things.  _ “Would it not be better for the Bridgertons if you were to stop being a blight on their kind natures?” _

“I-I suppose…” Penelope whispered. 

_ “Would it not be better for Colin to return from Greece and not be bothered by your presence?” _ The Beast asked, one of its claws running through her curls almost tenderly.  _ “Would your friends not be better off for it?” _

Penelope’s mouth moved to answer, and she could feel the acquiescence bubbling from her lips, but something stopped her short in her tracks.

Penelope frowned.

_ “Well?” _ The Beast asked again. 

Penelope’s mind flew, unbidden, to Eloise,  _ a sister of her soul, _ and then to Benedict, who declared himself her favourite sibling. (That was Hyacinth.) She thought to Violet and the children, to stories of being red amongst a sea of blue.

_ “Well?” _ The Beast growled, it’s voice hardening.  _ “Would they not be better for it?” _

Penelope thought of a Viscount’s office, and two broken, wretched beings. Of a promise made in the dark, and two hands entwined more intimately than any lover’s embrace.

“I do not...I do not kn-” 

Roaring, The Beast  _ shoved, _ and Penelope felt water on all sides as she fell in with a splash.

She kicked and cried, trying to keep upright, but from the depths of the water seaweed began wrapping around her legs.

Penelope screamed. 

Seaweed kept winding around her, moving as if  _ alive, _ and suddenly Penelope’s legs were trapped despite her best efforts.

And then she started being dragged.

Down, down  _ down. _

Her lungs ached and Penelope thrashed against the seaweed, her hands scrambling at her legs to try and claw the seaweed off of her, but to no avail.

The moonlight beamed down upon her, and Penelope could see black spots dancing at the edges of her vision. 

She opened her lips. She began choking, her hands moving from her legs to grapple her throat, even as her lungs burned.

And then she let her body go, and fell into the darkness. 

***

And  _ then, _ Penelope flew up in her bed, tipping out to grab a hold of her chamber pot, emptying the meagre contents of her stomach until she was dry heaving on the floor, her whole body shaking. 

She wiped at her lips, her eyes blinking back the sleep gathered in its corners. She looked at her hands; they were shaking, and her right hand was still bruised and cracked from where she had hit it against the stone of the fireplace repeatedly earlier; a move that had not  _ started _ as purposeful, she  _ promised _ .

She was lying to herself.

Penelope chanced a glance outside, stumbling over to the window and peeling back the curtains. Nothing but inky darkness. 

Penelope crawled back into bed, though she knew she would not get any more sleep that night.

Instead, Penelope simply curled in on herself, and cried. 

Her soul felt worn and withered, one wrong move from dissolving completely.

She was a wretched, broken, battered beast.

Penelope was not sure whether she had the strength to hold on.

And she was not sure if she _should._


	9. One Step Forward. Two Steps Back. (The Virtues of Patience)

Something was wrong with Penelope.

Extremely, truly,  _ terrifyingly wrong. _

And Anthony, for the life of him, could not figure out what. 

The first week that the Bridgerton clan holidayed at Clyvedon, she had seemed to settle in with ease, and though she had been initially reserved, Penelope had been eager to join in and participate with anything and everything that had been thrown her way from Anthony’s over-eager and enthusiastic family. 

Daphne had swiftly and ardently taken Penelope under her wing, having seen in Penelope another sister that she could share her passions with, from her love of horse riding to the pianoforte and and dancing, something that Anthony knew had been issues for Daphne when her Eloise seemed to abhor each of the typical hobbies that Daphne enjoyed, and her other sisters much too young (or absent, in Francesca’s case) to understand. 

Violet, having found in Penelope another daughter, one that she could share stories of her late love without hurting or causing grief to, would often sit with Penelope in the sun-room or in her own chambers with a pot of tea, regaling her of the love story that was Violet and Edmund Bridgerton; far-off gazes and grief-ridden smiles transforming themselves into perhaps the sweetest and most tragic love story Penelope had ever heard- a story of soulmates and red in an ocean of blue and whispered words and a bee sting that tore them apart far too soon.

(Anthony was not, in fact, privy to what was being shared between Penelope and the Bridgerton matriarch, and though he had not pried  _ himself, _ he did allow himself to eavesdrop as Benedict asked his mother just  _ what _ the pair talked about. To his and Benedict’s disappointment, Violet simply quailed her second soon with a prim glare and told him that a woman’s conversation was her own, and that he was not yet too old for Violet to take him to task for his cheek, before she stood and swanned out the room. The arched eyebrow she had given Anthony as she left told him that she  _ knew _ he was listening in, a silent threat that he was not too old, nor too high in station to be taken to task either. 

Benedict did not ask again, and Anthony did not eavesdrop further.)

And, for her part, Eloise was determined to uncover the identity of Lady Whistledown ahead of the next season, and had  _ forced _ Penelope to spend hours with her re-reading each and every page of salacious gossip Lady Whistledown had ever had printed, drawing her into long debates on possible culprits and suggestions for how to confront the suspects next season. She had been refreshed and energised by the possibilities despite her lack of success last season, and Penelope seemed more than content to bat around ideas with her dearest friend, a soft, teasing smile on her lips that had shown Anthony that Penelope was helping Eloise purely out of affection for her friend rather than any desire to unmask Lady Whistledown herself, and Anthony could admire the way that she had not once complained of Eloise’s overzealous efforts, simply smiling and asking questions of her own, refuting some of Eloise’s potential perpetrators and suggesting some of her own. Anthony had walked in on them splayed on the floor positively  _ cackling, _ Eloise revealing through her laughter that Penelope had playfully suggested Cressida Cowper. Anthony could not help but to crack his own grin as he thought of the ill mannered, fair-headed debutante. 

Lady Whistledown, indeed _._

Lady Whistledown would be more likely to be  _ Penelope  _ than Cressida Cowper, Anthony had chuckled to himself. 

Truly; whether it was a spirited game of Pall Mall in the afternoon, taking the family’s  _ intense _ passion for the game in stride as well as their...competitive and  _ inventive _ methods of playing and laughing heartily when Eloise and Benedict began fighting over who won. (Anthony most certainly,  _ definitely, _ had not gotten involved in that, at  _ all. _ Even if he knew that  _ he _ was the true victor.)

She joined in every evening, listening to Daphne’s Pianoforte playing with enthusiastic praise for her talent.

She played with Hyacinth and Gregory, games of chase and hide-and-seek all over the sprawling gardens, and mediating the accusations of cheating that the pair often ended up arguing over. 

She even joined in at the wee hours of the morning, when daylight had just broken over Clyvedon, dressing in her riding habit and happily accompanying Anthony and Benedict and occasionally Daphne and Simon on an early jaunt around the countryside on the horses. Penelope had happily joined in with  _ everything. _ .

Penelope had been present and pleasant and  _ enjoying herself. _

Even when simply reading or writing she did so in the presence of others, without complaint nor hesitation, happy to just sit alongside others and enjoy their company.

She seemed to be having  _ fun. _

And then, she was not. 

Quite suddenly, despite everybody’s best efforts, Penelope withdrew, and Anthony wanted to tear out his hair as he could not figure out  _ why. _

Why had she closed herself off?

She stopped joining them for horse rides, despite having absolutely  _ fallen _ for the brown mare named Tulip that she usually rode, often excusing herself as being too tired or busy. She decided to stop joining them in their Pall Mall games, instead sitting to the side and saying she would rather watch instead, but that did not last long in itself. Instead, not five minutes later she would begin begging off of spectating, claiming headache or exhaustion and adjourning inside, until she stopped joining them outside altogether. 

She quite suddenly began to retire early in the evening, not staying up to listen to Daphne play, and she retreated into her chambers promptly after every meal, waiting only the barest amount of time she could before leaving without being outright  _ rude. _ She stopped playing with Gregory and Hyacinth, stating that they were simply too good for her to play against. She still sat with Eloise as she went over her Whistledown theories, but she stopped joining in and contributing; instead she would simply smile blandly and write down whatever Eloise mentioned, not raising her voice despite Eloise’s efforts to offer her own thoughts or theories. Penelope stopped reading or writing in the presence of others; indeed, Anthony had once come upon her in the library, but upon noticing him Penelope promptly packed her things away and said that she was going to rest, leaving him alone and confused and increasingly frustrated with her. 

She avoided everybody’s attempts to cajole her, and every effort that was made to get her to join in again was dodged with a practiced ease that only revealed to Anthony that it was not the first time Penelope had decided to withdraw from others.

Simon and Anthony, and even Benedict often talked long into the night, discussing the young woman, and each time they hit a wall that there was no way over.

As Simon had said, without clear evidence that Penelope cannot deny, it is unlikely that she would ever admit  _ anything _ was wrong at all, and to confront her otherwise would just alienate her further.

Anthony had to exercise  _ patience, _ but his self-confessed slim patience was already worn thin. 

Penelope had grown unusually cold towards him, too, and Anthony was stung by the sudden changes in her demeanor. 

It felt like they were at an impasse; a silent standstill and Anthony was not sure why. 

Anthony had spent a lot of time alone at night, staring hard into the fire as he thought back, trying to find a possible reason in each of their interactions, for surely  _ something _ in that time had made her uncomfortable, trying to rationalise her change in demeanor.

He thought back to two hands, holding each other across the expanse of a desk in a Viscount’s office in the dark. Two wretched, broken beings reaching out to each other, hands more intimately entwined than any lover’s embrace. 

But Penelope had never voiced her displeasure to him after the fact. Indeed, she had still been willing to sit with him and to talk with him, and even laugh with him. 

He thought back to a quiet carriage ride, and a head of sunset curls spilling onto his shoulder. He thought back to his arm around her waist, and to a late night with lavender chamomile and honey tea. 

A hand, squeezing his. Once, twice. Thrice. 

Had he been inappropriate without even realising? 

Anthony conceded that perhaps it  _ was  _ possible; he was more than a rake even at the best of times, and no stranger to even unintentional flirting with pretty young women; but surely Penelope would have voiced her displeasure with him? 

Was she  _ afraid _ of confronting him with her discomfort, given the differences in station? She would care about such a thing, even if he did not. Was that why she had soured towards him?

She certainly had not seemed to have difficulty with telling him her thoughts when she was upset or angry; he could remember clearly how she half-whispered, half-shouted to him, baleful and frustrated towards him as she told him she would not bare her soul at his whim; Anthony could remember how she heaved with anger when breaking fast, upset with him for insisting that she used some of his money for her clothing.

No, in spite of her relative shyness, she had never been afraid of him, nor afraid to  _ show _ her displeasure with him, and show it loudly. 

But that provided no comfort to Anthony, for he still could not understand why she avoided him so determinedly. 

There must be  _ something, _ some event that had happened between then and now to elicit such a reaction from the woman.

And Anthony resolved to discover  _ what. _

Anthony’s heart lurched uncomfortably at even the prospect that he might have done something to lose her tentatively given trust; or, indeed, that something had happened and Penelope did not feel comfortable enough to come to him with her concerns. 

He thought to himself for a moment, his mind going back to lavender and chamomile and honey, to a soft hand squeezing his.

Once, twice,  _ thrice. _

Perhaps that was the answer; perhaps a small pot of tea would endear her to him long enough to find the source of Penelope’s changing behaviour.

Perhaps she would be at ease enough to confide in him again.

And perhaps  _ he _ would hold  _ her _ hand, this time.

Anthony could do nothing but hope.

***

He had waited until he knew Penelope had retreated, alone, into her room. It was a sunny afternoon, and the rest of the family had decided to play a game of Pall Mall. He begged off playing, citing a sleepless night, happily enduring Benedict’s mocking as his younger brother implied that he was backing out from  _ cowardice. _

(Anthony would make sure to assert a victory over Benedict soon enough, to put things to rights and shut the smug  _ prick _ up.)

It had been an easy feat to charm one of the scullery maids to prepare him a tea tray, piled with small biscuits and sugared almonds for Penelope, and even easier to insist that he carry the tray to her room himself, shakily balancing the tray in his hands and awkwardly knocking on the door. 

He heard a soft shuffling sound from the other side, and Penelope swung the door open, leaning against the wood delicately.

She looked pale, aside from her cheeks which flushed bright pink, and her eyes looked to Anthony that she might have been weeping, her red-rimmed irises exacerbated by the deep, sunken shadows of her eyes.

She was a state, and Anthony’s heart ached painfully. 

He prayed that she would open up to him.

He remembered Simon’s words.  _ Patience. _

“Anthony?” She stammered, and he smiled brightly at her.

“Penelope!” He said, lifting up the tray into her line of vision. “Tea?”

Penelope swallowed thickly, “I do apologise, Anthony, but I am afraid that-”

“You are available all afternoon?” Anthony interrupted, not leaving her any room to argue as he pushed past her into the room, making his way to her small sitting area and placing the tray onto a small wooden table between two plum coloured velvet chaise-lounges. “Brilliant! I think tea with a friend is always worth taking the time for, is it not?” He asked.

He took the teapot in hand, pouring two cups of tea before Penelope could stop him, taking a small pot of honey and swirling some of the viscous amber liquid into each drink, before resting the dipper back inside of the honey pot and picking one of the sugared almonds out of the bowl to chew around. He grabbed a biscuit.

“Anthony,” Penelope continued, sighing deeply, “I am afraid I cannot take tea with you today-”

“Nonsense!” Anthony said, waving his hand vaguely in her direction around, chewing on a biscuit instead of responding to her properly.

“I really am rather busy, Anthony!” Penelope insisted, shutting the door behind her, trying her hardest to not stomp her feet at him. He simply took a sip from his own cup, before settling into one of the chaises languidly. He stretched his legs out with a contented sigh, taking another sip of tea and smiling at her. 

“Penelope, please do tell me what on  _ earth _ you simply  _ must  _ do that cannot wait for you to have a simple cup of tea with a friend?” Anthony asked, cocking his eyebrow to her, his eyes glittering. 

Penelope frowned. “I-well...that is to say…” Penelope stammered, and Anthony grinned at her, and Penelope huffed. 

“Fine,” she conceded through gritted teeth, almost  _ stomping _ to take a stiff seat in the other chaise, her shoulders locked tight. “I suppose  _ one _ cup will do.”

“Brilliant!” Anthony grinned, “I promise, I shall only encroach on your  _ precious _ time for a single cup.” 

“I did not realise that my time was wanted so dearly,” Penelope quipped, and Anthony was pleased to learn that despite her ire towards him and her obvious desire to avoid him, that her endless well of sarcastic quips had not dried up. 

“Penelope, you and your time are  _ always _ wanted.” Anthony smiled, sitting up to pass her cup over. He bit back a smirk as she flushed vividly, and she took the cup from him shakily, her movements stiff and contained.

“Well, then,” Penelope muttered, bringing the cup to her lips. Anthony watched her carefully, taking stock of the tension in her shoulders and the measured, controlled way in which she drank, when he noticed her free hand moving to her side with a wince.

He frowned, his eyebrows furrowing deeply, and he took another sip from his cup to disguise how his lips had pulled down. 

Anthony could see her hands, too; they looked  _ worse _ than they had the last time he’d noticed them, the knuckles bruised and raw, a stark contrast from her normally smooth and pale skin.

She sipped from her cup, sighed, and winced again.

“Penelope,” Anthony began, “are you hurt? Injured in any way?” Penelope’s eyes widened for a moment and she hastily placed her cup down. 

“N-No. Not at all!” She spluttered at him incredulously. 

And she winced again.

“Penelope, what has happened to injure you so?” Anthony asked, leaning forward in his chair, his own cup of tea now abandoned. 

Penelope huffed. “Nothing at all! I am well.” She insisted. 

“I can see you wincing, Penelope,” Anthony said, his voice gentle but short. “And I can see your knuckles. It cannot be  _ nothing _ if you are in pain.” 

Penelope stood up from her seat, her hands moving behind her back. She smiled saccharinely, but her eyes were icy. 

“I am  _ well, _ Anthony.” She started, moving to stand behind the chaise. “There is nothing wrong with me and I am most  _ assuredly _ in no pain.” 

If Anthony were a more patient man, he might have heeded Simon’s continuous warnings to not push her further. He might have listened to his  _ own _ assessment that pushing Penelope would do naught but cause her distress; cause her to pull away from him rather than confide in him.

But Anthony was  _ not  _ a more patient man.

He stood up, not hiding the roll of his eyes. 

“Why are your knuckles torn up, Penelope?” He asked doggedly, “I saw them as clear as day. You have been wincing since you sat down and I will not pretend that I do not notice any longer.” 

He stepped towards her. 

“Why are your knuckles bruised?” He asked. Penelope stepped backwards, twice, towards the door, and Anthony took another step forward, his longer strides making up the distance Penelope had placed between them. 

“I-It is nothing serious!” Penelope blustered, “I-I simply knocked my hand again!” She stepped backwards twice more, and Anthony followed her. 

“How would knocking your hand create such an injury?” He probed. Penelope swallowed thickly. 

Two moves back, her smaller strides trying to move out of his line of questioning. One move forward, his longer step closing the gap once more.

“I-”

“Well?” He pushed. 

“I br-bruise easily!” Penelope said, swallowing thickly and backing up again. He followed her. 

Anthony sighed. 

“Bruising easily does not explain the state of your  _ hands, _ Penelope.” He pressed.

“I- Oh- Well...That is to say-” Penelope stammered.

“And why were you pressing your hand against your ribs?” Anthony continued over her stutters. 

He took the first step this time, moving one step forwards. She took two steps backwards in response. 

“I am clumsy, Anthony!” Penelope laughed, her eyes wide and wild and the large smile on her face so  _ obviously _ false that he wanted to scream at her to just  _ tell him, already. _ “I am simply clumsy young Penelope! I always have been, yes?”

It had become a strange dance between them. 

He moved forwards, and she moved backwards in response. 

He challenged her and she responded, falling over her own words to catch up like a dancer slightly off beat, and though a kinder side of Anthony wanted to drop his line of questioning, the larger part of him that wanted answers, wanted her to confide in him, continued to press further. He  _ wanted _ her to trip so that he may take her hand, and so he felt no choice but to continue pursuing the litany of questions each stumbling response she gave him raised.

“You are injured because you are...clumsy?” He questioned, raising his eyebrow. 

She laughed brightly, a shiny, metallic laugh that sounded as forced as it felt, her hand moving to the back of her neck for a moment. 

A nervous tick.

“I am very uncoordinated and graceless, Anthony!” She laughed, shrugging. 

Anthony noticed her wince once more. 

“I-I am forever acquiring scrapes and bruises!” He took another step forward, and she took another two steps backward. “I am no stranger to a simple, harmless injury!” She smiled at him weakly.

Another step forwards; another two steps back. 

“I do not believe that is the case at all, Penelope.” Anthony huffed. Penelope laughed again, but this time it was clearly in disbelief. Anthony’s stomach twisted uncomfortably as his ire grew. His patience, his thin and short patience, was worn down, and he no longer could stop the way his shoulders tense or his back straightened, her laugh feeling to him like more of a challenge; a provocation. 

Daring him to confront her.

“Well then,  _ dear _ Anthony, what is it that  _ you _ believe to be the case? With all your  _ omniscience, surely  _ you must know!”

Penelope’s back met the solid wood of the door with a soft  _ thud _ , and Anthony took a deep breath, counting to five in his head. 

He pressed forwards once more. 

Penelope, having nowhere to go, pressed further into the wood, her back straightening against the door, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wide as Anthony pressed forward again.

His hands came up beside her, palms flat and tense against the door either side of her head, his knuckles white as he fought to keep them from coiling into fists in his ire. 

He was pressed close to her, and Penelope felt unbearably warm and tense under his gaze. 

Anthony stared at her silently for a moment and Penelope’s heart stuttered beneath her chest, swallowing any retort in her throat and leaving her breathless. 

“Did you hurt yourself?” Anthony asked, his voice taking on a low, throaty timbre that Penelope had never heard before; Anthony himself had never heard himself sound like that, had not thought himself  _ capable _ of it. 

Penelope chuckled nervously, chewing on her bottom lip. 

There was a stretch of silence between them.

“Well?” Anthony asked, and Penelope cleared her throat. 

“I-I think we very much established Anthony, that my lack of grace lends to me hurting myself regularly!” Penelope responded finally, her voice small, but Anthony could see the unbridled indignation burning beneath her eyes. 

He wanted her to  _ explode, _ to tell him what she was feeling and what she was going through. To sob against him and confess all her woes so that he may put the world to rights again.

He did not want to hear any excuses.

Not anymore. 

A growl tore from Anthony’s throat, and it was all Penelope could do not to squeak out a string of apologies as he stared at her. 

“Did you hurt yourself  _ on purpose? _ ” Anthony asked through gritted teeth. 

It was the wrong thing to ask. 

Penelope no longer shied under him, and Anthony could see the moment it happened; instead of kowtowing to him or exploding in a babble of cried confessions,, a wave of anger seemed to crash over her, and her lips flattened into a thin line, her jaw tensing. Anthony saw the fire come back into her eyes. 

“I think,  _ Anthony, _ ” Penelope hissed, “if you are  _ quite _ finished accusing me- and  _ accosting me! _ You should  _ leave. _ ” 

“I just-” Anthony gritted his teeth once more. “I simply want to  _ help _ you, Penelope.”

He had expected her to stutter or stammer at him, or even to shout.

He did not expect to  _ feel _ her heart stuttering so loudly, perhaps only quieter than his own for surely that was hammering against his own ribs uproariously. 

He did not expect for her hand to come between the surprisingly  _ small _ space between them to land flat on his chest.

And he definitely did not expect to almost fall flat on his arse as she  _ pushed _ him away from her _ ,  _ with a surprising amount of force that caused him to stumble backwards. 

“I have done  _ nothing _ wrong!” Penelope hissed at him again, her voice filling with vitriol. “I have done  _ nothing _ to have you accosting and accusing me! To have you  _ demand _ to help me with an issue I do  _ not _ have!” Her hands moved to her hips. 

“I am  _ not _ a plaything to be controlled or pushed about at every  _ single _ whim you have, Anthony Bridgerton!”

Anthony laughed from sheer shock. 

“I do not want to  _ control _ you, Penelope! I simply want to support you and help you!” He took a step forward, and surprisingly she took a step towards him, poking him harshly in the chest. 

“I do  _ not _ require, nor do I  _ desire, _ any help for a problem I simply do not have!”

Anthony rolled his eyes. 

“Require? Penelope, do not be so  _ stupid! _ Look at you! You need  _ help, _ stop being so  _ ridiculous  _ and just  _ accept it!” _

Penelope froze. She stared at him icily for a long moment, and stepped backwards, her hand finding the doorknob. She opened her door.

_ “Leave.” _ She bit out through gritted teeth. 

Anthony’s heart dropped to his stomach.

His body chilled.

“P-Penelope-”

_ “Leave!” _ She cried out, and he could do naught but stamp out of the room. 

“Penelope-” He said, turning around. 

She gave him no time to respond; instead, she slammed the door in his face. 

“Shit,” Anthony muttered, leaning his forehead against the wood. “Penelope, please!” Anthony cried out, slamming his fist on the door. “Please, just let me help you!”

There was no response.

He shouted to her again.

Still no response.

He swore, loudly. “This is not the end of our conversation, Penelope!” He shouted, “I shall not rest until you accept the help you  _ need. _ ”

There was still no response, and Anthony stomped his way into his room.

He remembered Simon’s letter. His calls for patience. 

Fucking  _ patience. _

“ _ FUCK!” _ Anthony shouted. 

He slammed the door behind him.

One step forwards. 

Two steps back. 


	10. Eloise and The Mystery of Saint Sixpence

Winter had come to Clyvedon. 

Oh, the sun still shone most days, and the grounds were clear from flakes, and there was no mist chasing breath as it fell from the lips of its inhabitants.

No, there was nothing that  _ outwardly _ revealed just how deep into winter Clyvedon had fallen. 

But inside the home was another story entirely. 

Each and every hallway, every room and every step of Clyvedon Castle was embraced in the bitterest chill; the iciest frost. 

The air felt forever heavy and trembling, ready to bow under the pressure and release in a storm of ice if somebody dared to mention it.

Frost may not have dusted the grounds, and sunshine may have beaten down of their backs as they played Pall Mall or picnicked or rode the horses, but the chill permeated everything around each member of the family, right down to the bones.

It also may not have been the season for snow, but for the residents of Clyvedon Castle, it felt like the bitterest winter they had witnessed, as the biting cold of Penelope’s temper and the harsh wind of Anthony’s shouting fury clashed together in a treacherous, dangerous tension. 

Nobody had a single clue  _ why. _

For neither love nor money could anybody understand just what had happened between the pair; Anthony refused to say little on the matter, only telling Simon that some did not deserve the gift of  _ patience. _ For her part, Penelope said nothing at all, instead deflecting any mention of Anthony at any point with a roll of her eyes and a caustic remark. 

They avoided each other for the most part; and when forced in each other’s presence, were chillingly civil to each other, teeth gritted into grimaces and eyes sharper than steel swords. 

It was especially driving Eloise spare. 

She was a fan of mysteries such as the identity of Lady Whistledown, but she certainly was  _ not _ a fan of her eldest brother’s and best friends’ sudden  _ bitterness _ towards each other.

And then, Penelope began going out of her way to exclude Anthony from any conversation; taking to ignoring him altogether and changing the conversation, or simply leaving in the middle of him speaking, exiting the room without an excuse or a goodbye. 

Anthony, on his end, made sure that he pricked Penelope with pointed comments constantly, and though Eloise could discern neither the cause nor the true nature of the remarks, it never failed to make Penelope grind her teeth and tense her shoulders as she bore a look that spelled pure  _ murder _ towards the eldest Bridgerton.

That was only for the first two weeks of the freezing chill. 

One dinner, Anthony was laughing with Simon and Benedict, all of them a bit deeper in their cups than had initially planned and steadfastly ignoring Daphne and Violet’s pointed gazes. 

Penelope, her ears having turned towards their raucous and raunchy jokes rolled her eyes and huffed as Anthony murmured another dirty joke; it would have gone unnoticed, had Anthony not been looking at her at that very moment, which he had taken to doing at any opportunity he thought he could get away with it, even though he was angry with her and then angry with  _ himself  _ for staring in the first place; because he did not know why he felt so compelled to stare at her, and nor could he bring himself to stop staring, no matter how hard he tried to. .

_ “Do you have something to say, Penelope?” _ Anthony had sniped, his eyebrow raised.

Silence had fallen over the table, and eyes latched onto the pair. 

_ “I’m afraid I just do not find such a joke to be polite conversation in front of ladies,” _ Penelope stated in cool civility.  _ “Though I did not find it very humorous at all.” _

Anthony rolled his eyes, downing the rest of his wine in a thick pull of liquid, his hand flexing around the glass, and he leant backwards in his chair, his hair tousled and the stain of wine on his lips in a way that made Penelope’s heart race in what could only be  _ anger, _ for she had nothing but contempt for him at that moment and she certainly had never felt so frustrated before. 

_ “I suppose you are right-”  _ Simon had started, trying to smooth things over like the reformed rake that he was, hoping that perhaps he could encourage the pair to cease before they began. 

But Anthony did not want to  _ smooth things over.  _ And, certainly, he made no effort to do so.

Instead, Anthony ran his hand through his hair, messing it up further, and he smirked at her so cruelly and devilishly that Penelope’s throat, just for a moment, felt tight, and her lips felt dry, and certainly, had any man ever made her more frustrated or angry before?

She thought perhaps not.

Anthony chuckled darkly.  _ “Well perhaps it is not  _ I  _ that lacks a sense of humour.”  _ He responded, and Penelope’s shoulders tensed. 

Any remaining noise from the table ceased as everybody else fell silent, the tension crawling into their throats and snatching the words away from them before they could say anything at all.

Except for Penelope. She felt a strange buzzing in her ears, a strange rush in her head, and she wanted nothing more than to slap him or hurt him. 

She managed to refrain from doing so, but her lips loosened of their own accord, the previous tightness in her throat giving way to words. 

_ “I suppose,” _ Started Penelope, the words biting out of her icily, returning his chilling tone with her own cool politeness, picking up her own drink and taking a slow sip before continuing,  _ “that not everybody is blessed with your  _ omniscience _ in discerning who has a sense of humour or not.”  _ Penelope licked a stray drop off her lips and placed her glass down on the table with a gentle thud, though it felt unusually loud and heavy in the silence. 

Anthony moved to open his mouth, but Penelope, feeling almost like she was not in control of her own body, finished her insult before he could interrupt it.

_ “Though I hardly think a lout’s jeers could be considered  _ humorous.”She said, arching an eyebrow towards him in response. 

Daring him.

Challenging him. 

Something Penelope had discovered about herself when she began; she loved a challenge; but so, it seemed, did Anthony. And neither were the type to back down easily.

Anthony huffed.  _ “I suppose not, I suppose simpler minds prefer a more  _ clumsy, ridiculous _ sense of humour.” _

Penelope could see how tense Anthony’s hands had gotten on the empty glass; his knuckles had whitened from the force, and it was a small mercy to the man that it had not broken.

It was another small miracle that Penelope had not thrown her  _ own  _ glass towards his head, for surely that is what she desired most to do. 

The ice inside her positively  _ burned _ , and Penelope wanted nothing more in that moment to practically poison him with her words; to make him feel every bit as small and pathetic as each of his pointed remarks and insults made her. 

As much as he had hurt her in her room, before she told him to leave.

Penelope’s heart thudded loudly, and she felt like she had been lit from within with energy.

She took a calming breath, trying to steady herself.

_ “No,” _ she had instead returned, standing up from her chair, moving behind it and tucking it under the table,  _ “I suppose the Rake’s humour is self-aggrandising and loutish because it is the only way one might find such a rake funny rather than  _ Pathetic.” She hissed, before turning her back to him, instead curtsying to Simon and Daphne in turn. 

She excused herself before Anthony could respond, his face flushed and his eyes wild as he seethed. 

(Inwardly, Eloise wanted to applaud Penelope’s viper tongue. Outwardly, Eloise watched on silently, her mind faltering with a lack of thought as her sensibilities left her and she was left floundering with what to do.)

And then there was a shattering sound, and Hyacinth shrieked something shrilly. 

Anthony’s hand was covered in blood as glass fell onto the table, his emptied wine glass having all but disintegrated under the force of his hand, shards digging into his flesh and falling onto the table. 

The smallest of mercies was it that the glass had already been emptied and had not drenched anybody in wine; though the deep, bright crimson of Anthony’s blood was sure to do so in its stead. 

***

It had been a flurry of commotion at the dinner table that night, and since then, Anthony, his hand healing (and thankfully not the hand with which he wrote) had taken to being downright vicious to Penelope any chance he had.

Penelope, though she riposted each and every snide word with her own cruel comments, could not avoid her own feelings, and it was clear to Eloise in the way that Penelope would hold her body after; how her eyes would shine in what could only be anger and heartache, that the root of the issue was something much deeper; something that had actually  _ hurt _ Penelope rather than just angered her. 

And so, she put down the Lady Whistledown Society Papers, grabbed her notebook and pencil, and started writing.    
  


_ The Anthony-Penelope Mystery. _ _   
  
_

She then hastily scribbled over it; for if somebody were to stumble on her book and read it- for surely, her inquisitive and downright  _ nosy (ahem,  _ _Hyacinth_ ) family would do so at the first opportunity, she renamed it. 

~~_ The Anthony-Penelope Mystery. _ ~~

_ The Mystery of Saint Sixpence.  _

_ There, _ thought Eloise.  _ That is subtle enough, and boring enough to dissuade any readers. _

Over the following five days she watched each and every interaction between the pair; she listened to every barb exchanged; she noted down each pained glance and icy glare in her book at any moment she could, often scribbling inside it late into the light as the candles burned low and she could barely see, her eyes straining to see the pages.

Pages upon pages of notes and observations into Anthony and Penelope’s behaviours had been written down, and Eloise sat five days later on her bed, trying to piece together the enigma that was  _ Saint Sixpence. _

And she found nothing. 

Nothing that could tell her the barest  _ hint _ of why they suddenly detested each other so; there were crumbs, yes. Like how Anthony favoured insults such as  _ clumsy  _ and  _ ridiculous _ and other jabs that hinted to Penelope being simple or foolish. Penelope herself favoured insults that mocked Anthony’s rakishness and often brought up the idea that he accosted women in some way; she also favoured references to Anthony’s arrogance and pushiness. 

They were nothing more than crumbs, tiny morsels hinting to a bigger picture that Eloise was not yet privy to. 

Yet…

Something stuck with her. 

Penelope’s almost over-use of the word  _ accost _ and related words. Almost any exchange between the pair accused Anthony of encroaching on the space of women and being loutish and rakish, even  _ forceful, _ and a thick, leaden weight settled inside Eloise as she considered  _ just _ what that might mean. 

Could Anthony really have-?

_ No, _ Eloise had reassured herself. Anthony was a  _ rake _ , indeed, but the women he flirted with had never complained. 

_ However… _

Best, perhaps, to ask Anthony himself. 

***

It was difficult for Eloise to seek Anthony out, especially knowing what she aimed to ask him. Still, she did so, knocking on his bedroom door one evening after dinner. 

He opened it, his face like thunder, though it quickly lightened when he saw her. 

“Eloise!” He smiled, “come in!” 

He ushered her inside and they sat down together, and Eloise, hands twisted together in front of her, gnawed on her lip nervously. 

Anthony looked at her solemnly for a moment, his eyes filled with concern, and Eloise felt almost  _ afraid _ to ask him.

“Eloise?” Anthony asked softly, leaning forward in his own seat. “What ever is the matter?”

“Anthony,” Eloise started slowly, keeping her voice measured. “I-I am afraid that I must ask you something…”

“Well, go ahead and ask!” Anthony smiled genially. “I am your brother, I’ll answer anything.” 

“Please, please do not get cross with me!” Eloise spluttered out, lurching forward to grab Anthony’s hand, “I do not want to ask this of you because I believe it of you, but I- I simply cannot go a moment longer without knowing-”

_ “Eloise. _ ” Anthony cut through her babbling, patting her hand softly. “Just ask me.”

There was a silence. 

And then-

“DidyouaccostPenelope?” Eloise rushed, her words slurring together. 

“Excuse me?” Anthony asked, a befuddled frown on his face. 

Eloise took a deep breath, her lungs rattling, her body  _ aching _ for a cigarette, and counted to ten. 

“Did...did you acc-accost Penelope?” She finally stuttered out slowly, biting her lip harshly. 

Anthony seemed to fall backwards in his chair.

“I-Eloise-  _ No!  _ Of  _ course  _ not!” Anthony cried out,  _ “I would never!” _

“Please do not be upset with me, brother!” Eloise cried herself, her eyes shining, “I-I simply  _ do not  _ know what has made you detest each other so- and Penelope kept saying you accosted women and I- well I did not believe that you  _ would, _ but I-”

“I understand,” Anthony sighed, surprisingly patient and kind in the face of just  _ what _ Eloise had asked him, running a hand through his hair. “You were worried for your friend and had to be sure. I understand, sister, and I am not hurt. I am a little wounded perhaps that you would have to ask, but I do not doubt that in your position I would likely ask the same of Simon or Benedict.”

“But I do not  _ understand, _ ” Eloise huffed, “if you have not accosted Penelope, then why do you suddenly seem to hate each other so?”

Anthony laughed, though it was a dry laugh; a hollow sort of sound that Eloise did not like to hear from her brother.

“Oh, sweet sister. I do not hate Penelope. I do not think so, at least, though I find  _ that _ sentiment changing more by the moment.”

“But you- you were both very kind, affectionate towards each other! What happened to change all that so suddenly?” Eloise asked, and Anthony deflected her gaze, looking towards the ceiling for a long moment. 

“If I knew Eloise, I would tell you only so that I may fix it myself.” Anthony finally answered, his eyes glancing towards her. He stood suddenly, moving towards the door, and Eloise got the sinking feeling that it was  _ conversation over with, _ and that she would discover naught else about  _ The Mystery of Saint Sixpence _ tonight. 

“But you simply must know  _ something, _ ” Eloise urged, sliding out of Anthony’s room. Anthony leant against the doorway and huffed. 

“I am afraid, dear sister, that I do not. The anger is all on Penelope’s behalf, not my own.”

Eloise rolled her eyes, and it was all she could do not to stamp her foot at him. 

“Anthony!” She cried out, “you are being just as cruel to Penelope as she is to you!” 

Anthony did not respond, and this time, Eloise could not help herself. 

She stamped her foot. 

“You are  _ both _ being children!” She shouted, turning around. “In equal measures!” She finished, and Eloise began traipsing back down the hallway, her feet stomping on the floor in loud  _ slaps. _

“I am not being a child!” Anthony cried, and Eloise stopped still; she half-turned towards him.

“Yes you are, brother!” She responded.

“No,” Anthony continued, “Penelope is! I am just responding.”

“Your actions say  _ otherwise!” _ Eloise shouted back, before turning away from Anthony altogether and continuing to stomp her way down the hall, muttering to herself about  _ stupid Saints _ and  _ sixpence _ and other things that Anthony could not quite understand as her voice faded away. 

Anthony frowned heavily, his eyebrows pulling downwards and he crossed his arms over his chest.   
He thought, long and hard, about Penelope.    
Or at least he  _ tried _ ; for the moment his thoughts turned towards the young  _ (ridiculous, impetuous, fiery) _ woman, his brain started to muddle itself up and his chest grew hot and his hands clammy, and Anthony wanted to throw something against a wall. 

(And as a result, he often did. However, though relieving for but a moment, glasses and pillows did not give him the release of tension that he sorely wanted. That he  _ desperately  _ needed, and Anthony wondered if throwing  _ anything  _ against the wall would be enough to sate his frustration if he could not pinpoint exactly  _ what  _ he wanted to throw in the first place.) 

He forced his thoughts to change its course, moving towards Simon and Benedict and their later plans to head down to the cellars and get absolutely  _ smashed _ on whatever they could find, Simon having heartily desired to deplete his father’s carefully collected supply as fast as possible.

_ Perhaps, _ Anthony thought to himself, picking his body back up from where it leant against the door frame and shutting the bedroom behind him,  _ perhaps Benedict and Simon would be interested in starting early. _

***

The three had gotten deep into their cups that night until the small hours of the morning, stumbling to their rooms sodden with whiskey and wine, and yet it was Anthony of the morning, head thick with malaise and nausea from his over-imbibing, the Anthony that stumbled still rumpled and slightly tipsy to the breakfast table, that had the displeasure of the morning’s news. 

He slumped into his chair without even bothering to jab at Penelope, who had looked at his disheveled state as he entered and sniffed, wrinkling her nose before turning back to her cup of tea. 

He grunted his hello’s to his family, noting that Benedict and Simon both seemed to have recovered in their own short slumbers.

_ Pricks, _ Anthony thought viciously, piling his plate high with food, primarily bread, hoping that it would soak up the remnants of alcohol in his body. 

He mumbled his hellos to the family, shying away from Violet’s disapproving glare and raised eyebrow as he turned to the food, shoveling it inside himself with a ferity that was most typically only seen on Colin, the brother with the bottomless pit for a stomach. 

Anthony, seeing Simon and Benedict’s smug grins, suddenly missed Colin a lot more, as his ire for the pair grew. 

Still, the family seemed content to let him eat in relative peace, having been witness to more than one of Anthony’s hangovers over the years. It was only Penelope that wanted to say anything at all, having smelt the alcohol on his body even across the table; but even she, it seemed, had decided that to say something would not be the best course of action at the present moment, and instead she simply sniffed at him, too busy eating to hear her, and took another sip of her tea, her own meagre breakfast being primarily moved around the plate rather than eaten, though she occasionally took small, minute bites as to give credibility to the illusion that she was digging in with the same enthusiasm as everybody else. 

It was this relative and seemingly rare peace that followed the family ‘till the end of breakfast, when Anthony had come back to the world a touch more.

Daphne  _ ahem’ed, _ taking Simon’s hands in her own and bringing everybody’s attention to the pair. 

“I am happy to announce that Clyvedon Castle has finally had its re-decorating completed,” She began, and Simon continued from where she left off without missing a beat. 

“As such,” he said, “we are formally opening Clyvedon Castle to the ‘Ton.”

“Oh, goodness!” Violet gasped, grinning widely. 

“We are  _ very excited _ to announce that we will be hosting only the uppermost echelons of the Ton,” Daphne continued, “for three nights. We are to have a ball!” She finished, clapping her hands together gleefully, Simon gazing adoringly at his wife. 

Eloise groaned. “A  _ ball? _ I thought I would be able to avoid those ‘till  _ next season! _ ” 

The table could not help but laugh at that, not even Anthony could avoid doing so, despite the fact that the last thing he wanted to take part in himself was a  _ ball. _

“Now, sister,” Daphne said, “It will not be like the season! It is not for the purposes of matchmaking at all.”

“Indeed,” Simon agreed, “the Queen expressed a desire to see Clyvedon “in all its splendour” once we had finished with the redecorating, and I frankly think we have ran out of excuses to  _ not _ have a ball. But,” he continued with a grin, “as long as you show up for an hour each night, none of us will notice if you slip off to the library.” He winked at her, and Eloise sighed in relief; though she, in a reflection of Anthony’s own reaction that morning, avoided her dear mother’s gaze. 

“And Penelope,” Daphne said gently, for the woman had gone quite pale at the prospect of a ball, “it is only the uppermost rings of society...your mother is not invited, I-I hope that is agreeable to you?” 

Penelope swallowed, and her shoulders relaxed. 

“I-Thank you.” Penelope murmured gently, smiling softly at the woman. Next to her, Eloise took Penelope’s hands and squeezed it, and Anthony could see the nerves melting off of Penelope’s body at the slightest confirmation that her hag of a mother would not be present. 

He looked back at Eloise and Penelope’s intertwined hands, and his own suddenly felt hot and clammy. 

His hands fell to his side, and he squeezed his thighs. 

Once. Twice. Thrice.

Just like Penelope had squeezed his hands.

Before they'd become what they were now.

It did not bring him the same comfort.


End file.
